


For The Long Haul

by xyai



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: A sprinkling of crack, Academy Era, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ensemble Cast, Gen, Humor, Mission Fic, Team Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 02:05:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xyai/pseuds/xyai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Kirk is none too pleased about having to shuttle cargo around the galaxy all summer long. As it turns out, there's more to the assignment than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic exists because one night mutecornett and I posed a number of grave and profound questions to the universe, including: where is all the adorable ensembly Star Trek mission!fic? and also Hah hah hah what if Jim were forced to pilot a merchant ship, he would hate it so much. 
> 
> It only took 25,000 words to get to an answer.
> 
> Art / Mix cover by mutecornett  
> [Mix by hollyhawke](http://8tracks.com/hollyhawke/for-the-long-haul)

Twenty minutes into the final lecture of Advanced Tactical Analysis, Jim’s comm vibrates frantically, providing a welcome distraction from Professor Webb’s arcane views on optical shielders. Expecting an exasperated retort for the many complaints of boredom he sent Bones, Jim grins and pulls out his comm, peering at it in the hollow between the desk and his body.

> _Summer Reassignment, James Kirk. Report to USS Amity on 2257.17 at 0700._

Jim leans forward until his forehead is pressed against his arm, and stares hard at the dimly lit screen. The unforgiving typescript of Starfleet Command stares right back.

 _USS Amity_...

He’s got an encyclopedic knowledge of the Federation’s exploratory and defense fleet, but the name doesn’t register. Could be a recently unveiled build. Or a science vessel.

Or maybe his summer just got royally screwed.

Jim raises his head and scans the lecture hall surreptitiously. Within his immediate vicinity, at least two cadets, maybe three— he can’t really tell with those ocular tendrils— are dozing, and at the front of the room, Professor Webb is fiddling with the the holoprojector, oblivious to the chorus of snores rising from his audience.

Jim pulls his PADD into his lap and ducks his head back down.

With a basic search, he locates the USS Amity on the Starfleet vessel database. As he swipes through the virtual model, a headache starts to creep its way into his skull. By the time he lands on the specifications page, the headache has declared squatters rights and invited all of its friends over for a pulsing rave.

> _**USS Amity** _
> 
> _Antares-class vessel. Accommodates up to 30 crew members and 3,000 tons of cargo._

Fingers clumsy, Jim expands the description. It pops up in a merry flash of color.

> **_Merchandise and transport vessel._ **
> 
> _**Primary Cargo Category:** Appliances_
> 
> _**Upcoming Shipment:** Localized climate modulation systems_

Localized climate modulation systems?

As in, air conditioners? Fucking _air conditioners_?

Jim shoots up, limbs knocking into his desk. Ignoring the professor’s wheezing protests, he hurls his belongings into his bag, plows past two rows of bemused cadets, and dashes out the door.

 

* * * * * 

 

It’s not the first time Jim has skidded into Pike’s office unannounced, so when he bursts in with a breathless, “Sir!,” Pike barely raises his eyes from the datapad on his desk, just lifts his hand and beckons with two fingers.

“Sir—” Jim leans into the doorjamb, trying to regain his breath. He had decided on his run over to present his case calmly and reasonably, rather than just yell _WHAT THE FUCK_ a lot. “There’s been a mistake with my summer reassignment.”

Pike pins him with a hard look, then lets his gaze drift ever-so-slightly away, like he’s imagining how peaceful his life would be if he’d never accosted Jim in that bar and dared him to be awesome.

Finally, Pike stands up and gestures towards the door. “Walk with me, Kirk.”

Still short of breath from his cross-campus sprint, Jim reluctantly follows Pike outside. He grimaces at the straggle of cadets enjoying the early summer sunshine on Ishitsu Court. Assholes. Probably all about to head off to thrilling posts at exotic locales.

Tearing his attention away, Jim realizes that Pike has him outpaced by several steps. He jogs forward to catch up. As soon as he does, Pike says, "Your summer reassignment wasn't a mistake.”

Pike’s declaration clatters against Jim’s chest like gunmetal on steel. Jim fists his hands.

“What is the _point_ of making me pilot a 30-year-old rusted piece of shi— junk? That hunk of metal doesn't even have automatic impulse thrusters!”

Pike’s response is talon-sharp. “Frankly, Kirk, the punishment for accidentally detonating a capacitance cell on a Constitution Class ship because you were too bull-headed to follow orders should be far more severe than what you’re getting away with. You ought to be grateful that I found you a last-minute pilot vacancy, because if the Academy had it their way, you wouldn’t be let loose into San Francisco this summer, let alone into space.”

“And it’s not that I don’t appreciate that, sir, but— it’s a merchant ship. What happened to ‘Starfleet is important, it’s a peacekeeping and humanitarian armada’? When you told me that two years ago, becoming a glorified delivery boy isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

“Important isn’t always glamorous, Kirk, and you’d do well to learn that.” Pike stops abruptly at the edge of the courtyard, gazing out onto the glittering bay. Jim stills beside him, quiet for all of five seconds before he launches back into protest.

“Am I missing something, sir? How is delivering cooling units to some random planet supposed to make me a better Starfleet officer?”

Pike turns to face him, expression steeled in a familiar mix of exasperation and resolve. “You have plenty to learn before you’re ready to be an officer, especially if I’m still having to hover at your side to put out your fires— both metaphorical and, god help me, literal. Why don’t you get through one assignment without amassing a mountain of demerits, and then we can talk. And when you do become an officer, Kirk? Some missions are going to be boring. Some days are going to be boring. In fact, lots of days are going to be boring.”

Jim fidgets, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I know Starfleet isn’t all glory and phaser fights. But there are better ways I could be spending the next two months.”

Pike sighs. “Jim. Take this as the lesson that it’s meant to be. Do well— by which I mean, _don’t_ try to turbocharge the fusion drive without alerting the bridge— and you’ll regain the good graces of more than one Admiral. Trust me on this one. You’ll find the assignment to be more worthwhile than you think.”

“I appreciate that, sir, but I just don’t think this posting makes sense, especially given that I’m on the command track!”

Pike clasps his hands behind his back and tips his face toward the wan, mid-morning sun. “If you’d prefer something else, Kirk, I think I know of a waste transporter with an opening. Sanitation Officer. Excellent hands-on experience.”

All at once, Jim loses interest in prolonging the argument. He mutters, “I’ll stick to my current assignment,” and snaps off a salute, hurrying away before Pike can follow through on his arsenal of terrifying threats.

 

* * * * * 

 

Before Jim knows it, his instincts have carried him out of the danger zone, through the North Field, and up the front steps of Starfleet Medical. He checks his comm. 10:06— just in time to intercept Bones during his Wednesday morning shift.

As Jim passes through the glass-paneled entrance, he knows he’s hit the jackpot of visitation hours. The air is singing with the hum of biometric machines, and there are two nurses hanging over the front desk, engaged in rapidfire chatter with the well-endowed receptionist.

Jim rounds the corner to the clinical research wing. Down the corridor, a tell-tale stream of griping calls him forth like a beacon in the night.

He bolts into what appears to be a supply room, abuses against the whole of Starfleet Command on the tip of his tongue. “Those absolute shit-eating fuckers!”

Bones curses and drops the metal container he was holding. As he bends to pick it up, Jim forges on. “One little fire, and they don’t think I can handle myself on a real ship. It’s not like anyone even got hurt.”

Bones turns toward the cabinet and slots the container back into place, running a thumb along its edge to align it with its neighbors. “Excuse me if I don’t put everything on hold to attend to your demented whims, Jim. I’ve got actual duties to attend to, and none of them involve you.” He prods at another container— which upsets the seamless row— and re-straightens the whole thing again. Jim considers it his moral duty to liberate Bones from this nightmarish organizational loop.

“Bones, you can get a machine to take inventory and align everything to the nanometer. I need you to attend to my psychological pains.”

Bones narrows his eyes at him, like he doesn’t believe Jim’s vulnerable psyche is a legitimate cause of concern.

“Pike is making me pilot some merchant ship, and get this— it’ll be carrying air conditioners. Air conditioners! You’d think they’d be able to get some civilian pilot to make the trip to Berelli, but nope, I drew the winning ticket.”

“Berelli? You’re going to Berelli?”

“You got it. Some random planet in Beta Quadrant.”

Instead of offering Jim a pat on the hand or even a solemn, sympathetic nod, Bones turns around and stalks out the door, which doesn’t bear even a passing resemblance to emotional support. In Bones’ lexicon of silent gestures, though, it’s akin to encouragement, so as Bones makes his way to the grad student lab, Jim follows close behind.

Bones strides into the room and starts rifling through the PADDs strewn across his lab station, which looks like it’s been swept through by a tornado. Leave it to Bones to rearrange the supply room to microscopic exactness but neglect the mess in his own space.

He hands Jim a PADD loaded up with clinic check-ins. “Look here,” Bones says, finger swiping down the screen. “March 13th, three patients afflicted with mild but long-term nausea and fatigue. Similar cases in April and May. Always on the 13th. All of them recent returnees from Berelli.”

At the back of Jim’s mind, there’s a tiny spark, a thrill he associates with looming, as-yet unquantified challenge. “Huh,” Jim says. “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

When Bones shrugs, it’s got none of the _but actually, I know I’m awesome_ swagger that Jim usually works into the movement. “Tracking case patterns is part of my job. Luckily, the disease doesn't appear to be either life-threatening or contagious, and we've created temporary suppressants so that patients can go about their lives. Without pinpointing the cause, though, we'll only ever have the beginnings of a cure.”

“You think they’re picking it up from the planet? Some disease native to Berelli?”

“Could be, but the few people I’ve contacted at Starfleet have been as tight-lipped as a camel's ass. Typical goddamn bureaucratic horseshit. Can’t get ‘em to shut up about their trumped-up diplomatic pony shows, but ask them to disclose information that’ll save lives and you won’t get a single peep.” Bones fixes Jim with a steely expression. “Jim, if anyone falls ill on that ship, or you come across anything out of the ordinary, you let me know, alright?”

Jim smiles with a quick, honest quirk of the lips, meant to reassure. “Yeah, sure, Bones.”

“And another thing.”

“Yeah?”

Bones grips Jim’s arm and leans in, close enough that Jim can feel the heat of his body.

“Try not to do anything too idiotic.”

 

* * * * * 

 

Jim always did have trouble following instructions.

Four days before the USS Amityis scheduled to embark, he’s rooting around for beard suppressant gel in the dorm he shares with Bones when he senses an approaching storm front.

“ _JIM!_ ” Bones crashes into the room, holding his PADD aloft like it’s a sacrificial infant and shaking it violently. “WHAT DID YOU DO?”

“I do a lot of things,” says Jim, taking a few strategic steps backward. “A lot of people. Not always human. You’re gonna have to be more specific.” He knows exactly why Bones sounds like he wants to hunt him down and maul him, old-school rifle style, but playing innocent will give Bones time to wind down. And buy Jim precious moments to escape.

With the coiled patience of a predator set to strike, Bones advances, lowering his PADD until only his eyes are visible over the edge. Jim has watched enough nature holovids to recognize that this is exactly how crocodiles look before they thrash up through the water and clamp down on their victims.

“Jim.” Bones’ voice is very, very quiet. “Why the hell did I just get a comm confirming that I’ll be departing with the USS Amity tomorrow?”

“Huh. Did you?”

“Yeah, Jim,” Bones hisses. “I did.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Dammit, Jim!” Bones’ voice has ratcheted up to normal angry volume levels. Either he’s posturing, having resigned himself to his fate, or he’s getting pumped up to give Jim a sound beating.

Bones takes another two steps forward.

Jim makes the executive decision to retreat up onto the couch behind him.

“Bones,” he says from his new perch, “You should really reconsider your impulse to rip my face off. Just hear me out, man.”

Bones slowly presses his face into the back of his PADD and lets out an almighty groan. “You have thirty seconds,” he says, voice muffled. “Thirty seconds before I annihilate you.”

“Okay,” Jim says, bouncing on the battered couch cushions. “Last Thursday, Bender’s. You complained the whole night about being assigned an incompetent summer advisor and not having the resources to conduct your synaptic plasticity research. I know you’re jumping to find out why those visitors to Berelli came back sick, so…” Jim spreads his arms wide. “Here you go: new project!”

There’s a pause before Bones grunts and lowers his PADD a hair, clearing a pathway for his glare to bore into Jim.

“I already contacted your ex-research advisor, academic advisor, and campus housing. It’s all taken care of. You just have make it onto the ship.”

“You’d better not have used my comm channel to contact all those people,” Bones mutters, but there’s little heat behind it. After a moment, he lowers his hands to squint at Jim. “You didn’t pull anything illegal to get me onboard, did you?”

“Well…”

“Jim!”

“It was just a little civilian passenger database hacking! Piece of cake, merchant ship security is seriously lax.”

“Look, Jim, I appreciate that you were being at least partially altruistic with this whole charade, but you can’t just—”

“C’mon, Bones, I even packed your bag for you! Well, started packing. I couldn’t remember which boxers you were most attached to.”

Bones’ scowl slackens, and he drops his head to knead at his forehead. “Goddammit.”

“Besides, two months without me? You would’ve been so bored.”

Bones snorts. “I would’ve finally gotten a moment’s rest, more like.”

“Rest is overrated.” Jim sticks his right foot out to nudge Bones in the side. He hopes the message of mild apology comes across.

Bones grabs onto Jim’s foot and tugs, causing Jim to collapse ass-backward onto the couch in an unceremonious heap. Jim takes it to mean, “You stupid fucking asshole,” but also, “Yeah, yeah, message received.”

 

* * * * *

 

In the days leading up to the assignment, there are periods where Jim can admit to himself that the situation is far from the disaster he'd initially made it out to be. So he’s spending two months ferrying air conditioners around space— fine. He’ll perform the job to the Academy's satisfaction, and during off-hours, he'll learn Andorian, or study the ship’s impulse engines, or kick it with Bones, who might even uncover a medical case worth delving into.

Jim just can’t quite dislodge the knowledge that he’s being punished because Academy brass think he needs to be taught a lesson. Thinking about it leaves an acrid taste in his mouth.

It’s such bullshit. He disobeyed orders on a faulty hunch _one_ time.

Okay. Two times.

But still.

As he struts across the hangar with Bones on launch day, Jim’s antsy, caught within a flare of temper. What with the appalling shortage of Admirals offering themselves up to be punched, Jim contents himself with soundly abusing the USS Amity. It’s parked, unassuming, in the farthest corner of the hangar, which is bordered by a number of modest spacecrafts.

“Whoever designed the ship should be court-martialed,” Jim complains. “The way those warp nacelles are connected? No structural integrity at all.”

“Hm,” Bones says.

“And the deflector dish, look at it! Manufacture date can't be later than 2215. The thing belongs in a fucking museum.”

In uncharacteristically inarticulate fashion, Bones simply grunts.

“Rivets on the primary hull, bolted at 2 meters apart. Why the hell would they do that?”

“Dammit, Jim,” Bones bursts out, “Would you stop talking about how every inch of this thing is rusted, outdated, and at risk for malfunctioning? I’ve only just figured out how to make it onto a spacecraft without having a full-on panic attack, I’m not a goddamned aerial daredevil.”

“Shit, Bones,” Jim says, feeling like he ought to be punched himself, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

“Seems to be a recurring issue,” Bones grouses, but there’s little bite to it.

“Bones,” Jim says solemnly, “I will do my best not to endanger our lives while I’m bringing air conditioners to the people. Pilot’s honor.”

“Is that so.”

“Yep. Besides, for all we know, this could be the sturdiest ship in the Federation.”

Bones may be making a show of rolling his eyes, but there’s a quirk along the corners of his mouth.

As they draw closer to the USS Amity, Jim catches sight of a pair of squid-like creatures at its rear. They’re surveying a cadet as he loads the ship with crates.

Jim’s never seen anyone treat such large cargo so fastidiously before. If the rest of the crew is this incompetent, he’s in for a very long summer.  

Then Jim spots a familiar waterfall of dark, swinging hair across the hangar.

“Uhura!” Jim hollers, waving frantically. “Where’re you going this summer?”

Deep in discussion with someone Jim doesn’t recognize, Uhura acknowledges him with a curt nod but immediately resumes her conversation.

Against Bones’ protests, Jim bounds enthusiastically in her direction.

Just before Jim flattens their conversation with his entrance, he hears Uhura exclaim to her partner, “—sixth thesis—”

Obnoxious charm (emphasis on the obnoxious) powered to maximum effect, Jim sidles up to the two of them. “How’s it going, Uhura?” He turns to her companion— a Vulcan, judging by the sharp-tipped ears and effortless bitchface. “And friend?”

“...Kirk.” His name’s not long, but she pronounces it like she’s dragging her nail through each letter. It’s frightening and, frankly, Jim loves it.

Jim beams at her. Uhura neutralizes it with an icy look. Meanwhile, her companion surveys a point on the horizon with grave interest. This continues on until Bones rudely interrupts their moment of bonding by striding up behind Jim, grabbing his shoulder, and giving it a shake.

Is it just Jim or does Uhura’s affronted expression fall away at Bones’ arrival?

It’s definitely not just him. Uhura even proceeds to gesture toward her companion in introduction. “This is Spock— he’s a Starfleet Instructor and my research advisor. Spock— Cadets Leonard McCoy and James Kirk.”

“Jim,” Jim corrects. “So, sixth thesis, huh?”

Spock inclines his head.

"Only six?” Jim grins. “Your family must be pretty disappointed.” This sets off a quick succession of reactions: a minute flinch disturbs the calm of Spock's eyes, Uhura's expression turns murderous, and Bones groans. Casting an apologetic glance at Uhura, he pulls Jim away.

“Dear god,” Bones mutters when they’re out of earshot. “Sometimes I don’t understand how you manage to make friends, let alone get laid on an alarmingly frequent basis.”

“I have many assets,” Jim says, dislodging Bones’ grip and shimmying his hips mid-step. He stops. “Do you and Uhura know each other or something?”

“I have friends other than you, Jim,” Bones says, just short of smug. He continues towards the Amity.

Jim gapes, watching Bones’ back as he strolls onward. This news is pretty much universe-altering. Bones has a lot to answer for, the traitorous bastard. Jim rushes forward to catch up.

“Wonder where she’s headed off to,” Bones muses.

“Don’t change the subject! You and Uhura are _friends_? Do you know her first name? Don’t tell me you’re on a first-name basis.”

“Maybe I am, and maybe you would be too if you didn’t shut your brain off every time you came close to her.”

“What fun would that be?”

“I don’t know, Jim, I don’t pretend to understand the twisted mental process you go through to determine what’s fun.”

“It’s pretty basic. Going out drinking: fun. Flirting: fun. Making out: fun. Sex—”

“I’ve got medical supplies, and I’m not afraid to use them to get you to shut up,” Bones says, shaking his bag in a distinctly threatening manner.

Jim chortles. “Would you diagnose me to death or just shoot me up with vaccines?”

“How about I use my intimate knowledge of the human body to cause you unimaginable amounts of pain instead,” Bones says crossly.

“Better go with that. We’d be halfway to Beta Quadrant by the time you dug your hyposprays outta that thing. What’s in there, your entire collection of antique medical textbooks?”

“You do realize that the USS Amity barely has a functional sickbay, let alone a lab? I had to cobble together a lab kit, and the damn thing is barely more advanced than an Easy Bake Thermal Array.”

“Well, you weren’t planning on spending all of your time star-gazing, were you?”

The Amity looms ahead. Jim stops short, craning his neck to take in the grooves veining the hull of the vessel, the stains blooming across its body. The finish has all but peeled off, and half the letters of its designation have faded, leaving behind nonsense: _SS  m ty_. It’s a forlorn picture of decrepitude, clearly worn by the abuses of space and time.

“And there it is,” he mutters, sensing Bones as he tenses beside him. “Home sweet home for the next eight weeks.”

 

* * * * * 

 

A quick sign-off from the boarding officer, and they’re allowed onto the ship.

At the sight of dull steel floors and rusted walls, neither of which had been apparent on the holo model, Jim feels himself sliding back into a state of unpleasant, prickling resentment. The realization that he and Bones are due down separate corridors doesn’t help.

“Right, well.” Jim juts his thumb out and motions down the right corridor. “This is me. You should get going, those pathogens aren’t going to diagnose themselves.”

Bones opens his mouth, perhaps on the verge of a cautionary remark, or something else entirely. But after a pause, he just presses his lips together and nods. “Take care, Jim,” he says, and disappears down the corridor. Conspicuously absent of Bones’ dependable stream of half-curses and mutters, the ship suddenly seems at once cavernous and dizzyingly confining.

There’s nothing left for him now but to take his place on the bridge. Jim stalks down the corridor, spite climbing with each echoing footstep.

When Jim steps onto the bridge, he’s greeted by the same two squid-like creatures he’d spotted in the hangar. They let out a series of slurps, interspersed every so often with a halting break into Standard. After the third mangled “w—w—ellll—come,” Jim realizes that even the ship’s universal translator is dysfunctional. Making out the words “Captain” and “First Officer” through the stuttering static, Jim offers them a sloppy salute, more asshole-after-eight-drinks than regulation standard, then throws himself into the seat at the helm, contrarian disregard projecting from the sprawl of every limb.

From his seat, Jim scans the bridge mulishly. Apart from him, there are only two other crewmembers, both sitting at the consoles that line the walls. One of them is trailing a finger down the screen, so intently that it looks like he’s trying to wipe it free of dust, and the other is tapping her boot against the base of her console, beating out an uneven, hollow rhythm. Jim huffs an exaggerated breath.

She turns around, dark hair sweeping low across her brows. “Is there a problem?”

“Now that you mention it, yeah, I can name a few.”

She doesn’t even humor him with a reaction, just turns back to her screen and resumes her foot-tapping.

“Like,” Jim says loudly, “The fact that the plasma flow regulators are manual, or the really high chance that you’re gonna be tapping your feet through this whole damn assignment.”

She leans further into her console. Jim’s sure he catches her swapping a smirk with her seat partner.

When the captain asks him to disengage the phase inducer, he obliges, running through the motions at a deadened pace. Even the take-off sequence, probably the most complex task he’s going to have to perform all summer, is barely interesting enough to distract from the pit forming at the base of his stomach.

The rest of the four-hour shift proceeds at the pace of Bulgallian sludge. Acutely aware that he’s sitting squarely in the center of the bridge, Jim watches the others orbit at its edge, distant and removed. The one time he’s addressed, it’s Screen Wipe, informing him that he neglected to lock the warp field generator into the safety position. Jim ignores him. He’s not spending twenty minutes going through a procedure that’s founded on pure conjecture.  

When the shift ends, the captain and first officer glide out the door, tentacles waving, and the two other crewmembers swivel around to face Jim.

“You’re new, aren’t you?” Screen Wipe says. Jim’s not a fan of his voice. Too nasally. “Why don’t you join us for lunch?”

Jim meets his gaze, even and cool. Leaning back in his seat and kicking his feet up, he drawls, “No thanks. I wanna make the most of the hours I’m not forced to spend sitting near you people.” As soon as the words leave his lips, shame twinges in his stomach.

“We’re not exactly desperate for your company either, you know,” Foot Tapper snaps. “Have fun by yourself.” They tramp off, turbolift door closing behind them with a squelch.

In the silence that follows, Jim slides further into his seat and glares out at the bridge, then feels ridiculous for doing so after realizing that his only audience is a panel of viewscreens. His back starts to ache so he shifts back into upright position, cringing as his nerves reawaken and scattered prickles run across his legs.

Nobody has come in to replace the bridge crew. He’s not sure whether it’s another weird merchant ship convention, so he pulls up the shift schedule. Upon realizing that the ship is set to autopilot 85% of the time, he groans and arcs forward, letting his forehead hit the nav screen with a thunk.

Overwhelmed with a sudden and wild desire to escape the ship, his mind fills with visions of EV suits and thruster units, of expansive, unknowable darkness. He gets as far as figuring out how he would bypass the airlock security code when his stomach rumbles.

He gets a kind of masochistic pleasure out of thinking about wandering into a lions’ den of hostile crewmembers, and the prospect of riling some of them up, maybe even throwing a punch or two, is tempting enough to press away the self-reproach twisting in his gut. He stomps out of the bridge, ready to face down the crew.

The caf is a cramped little pocket of tables and chairs, illuminated by LEDs of an unnerving, sickly shade of yellow. Occupied by a handful of crewmembers who are scattered across the two tables, it’s a sad imitation of the Academy’s East End mess hall. Jim marches towards the replicator at the far end of the caf, challenging stare reserved for anyone who tries to follow his movements.

Propping his hands on the ledge of the replicator, he leans forward and mutters, “Cheeseburger and fries.”

The replicator doesn’t respond. Jim refuses to glance over his shoulder, but he knows he’s starting to draw stares. Gritting his teeth, he repeats the request. Still nothing. He’s about to throttle the fucking thing and really give everyone something to look at when he notices the number pad on the side.

It’s a manual replicator. Of course it is.

He scrolls through the menu and pounds out the appropriate code, causing the replicator to splutter and heave dramatically. Finally, it spits out a single bun, decorated by a limp piece of lettuce. Jim stares at the pitiful offering and wonders what kind of disciplinary action he would face if he set another ship on fire.

Shriveled lettuce sandwich in hand, Jim turns around and almost smacks into a leering crewmember.

At second glance, he doesn’t look like he’s doing so hot. _Actually,_ Jim thinks, unable to stem a grim lurch of amusement, _he might be doing a little too hot_. There’s a strip of sweat lining his upper-lip, his eyes are hooded and red-rimmed, and his uniform is rumpled. If Jim weren’t mildly concerned for his own safety, he would congratulate the guy on so boldly defying the standards of conventional grooming.

“Jim Kirk?”

“...that’s me.” The faint buzz of conversation in the caf has died away.

“Hikaru Sulu. I used to pilot this ship, and man, no hard feelings, huh? It wasn’t your fault, I know that, and god— I wish I hadn’t— anyway. It was stupid, so stupid. And I call myself a pilot!” He gazes at the wall for a few seconds, slightly cross-eyed. Then he turns on Jim with renewed intensity. “I just wanted to tell you, y’know, take care of her. She’s… I’m gonna miss her. What a great ship.”

Sulu concludes his speech by sticking his hand out and pitching forward.

Jim quickly moves out of the way. “Uh,” he says, “Okay.” The scene is so pathetic and so bizarre that it causes all of his bloodlust and pyromania to peter out. In that moment, all he wants is to get the hell away from these people.

Jim slinks around Sulu. “I’m just gonna...” He bolts for the door, and this time, he doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

 

* * * * * 

 

Though the air is less stifling in the narrow corridor outside the mess, restlessness continues to needle along Jim’s skin, and he’s keenly aware of his pulse, thumping with strange sluggishness.

Guided by little more than instinct, Jim treads through the ship, hoping his hurried pace will be taken as purposefulness rather than evasion. Instead of dwelling on the barrage of disapproving glances in the mess, he takes in the low crisscross of overhead beams, the distressed metal on both sides, the dull glint of exposed piping that comes into view every few feet. The soles of his boots scuff against the abrasive floor with every step.

With its confined quarters and seedy construction, the Amity is scrappy, and under different circumstances, Jim thinks he could almost appreciate that.

It’s just— it’s nothing like the ships he used to spend entire afternoons poring over on his PADD. He remembers his grade-school ritual: memorizing schematics and design details, examining the innards, feats of engineering that his mom taught him to appreciate, and, when he was feeling really indulgent, just plain staring at wide-frame holos of Constitution Class vessels. Starships are supposed to hold infinite possibility, within every impulse thruster, along every warp coil. Replace that with pedestrian necessity, and what was the point?

Surfacing from his thoughts, Jim realizes that he’s ended up on the lower engineering deck. He’s immediately drawn by the glow of the warp core, reliably complex without being difficult. A dense jungle of tubing and plasma conduits looms over him. As he advances deeper, he has to keep his eyes trained directly ahead to avoid mowing into one of the metal appendages jutting into his path.

He’s picking his way over the power conduits to take a better look at the intermix shaft when someone chirps into his ear. “Are you lost?”

Jim nearly collides into a pipe trying to get a look at the source of the voice. He gathers the sad remains of his dignity and straightens to find himself facing a scrawny, curly-haired teenager, face awash with the blue light of the PADD in his hands.

“Uh,” Jim says, “Nah. Just taking a look around.” Peering over the kid’s shoulder, he spots a small mound of PADDS spilling over the floor, as well as an open panel in the wall, revealing a promising weave of driver coils. Well, there are worse ways to spend an afternoon. “You want a hand?”

After studying him for a second, the kid— probably a cadet— smiles and motions back at his shrine of PADDs. “It is a simple realignment job. The schematics, they are there, somewhere,” he says, then pauses. “If you need them.”

Jim doesn’t. He steps around, picks up a decoupler off the floor, and sets to work, eagerly tackling the haphazard labyrinth of slender metal coils and the intricate threading of ion conductors. Beneath his fingers, the decoupler is cool and reassuringly solid.

“So,” Jim says as he tinkers with a particularly stubborn segment of coils, “Not a fan of eating in the mess?”

The other cadet grins sheepishly. “No— I like to take food down here and study. Right now, I am focusing on potential power transfer grid innovations.” He settles onto the floor next to the mound of PADDs. Jim can see that each one is loaded with articles on a different subject— weapons design, navigation and tactics, leadership, decision-making and risk calculation...  there’s even one about proper replicator assembly. “The information is company enough.”

“You might be onto something there.”

They both lapse into silence. For the next fifteen minutes, only the clink of metal punctuates the quiet.

Finished with the repairs, Jim glances back at the other cadet. “Hey. I never got your name.”

“Chekov! Pavel Andreievich Chekov.”

“No way! You’re that whiz kid who can calculate transporter temporal differentials at record speeds.”

“Well, I am young, so maybe a kid, but a whiz, I am not so sure,” Chekov says, looking deeply uncomfortable at the idea that anyone has been talking about him at all. “What is your name?”

“Jim Kirk. They put me in charge of flying this thing.” He slaps his palm against the wall. It clangs ominously.

“You must be a good pilot, if you are taking over for Sulu.”

Jim shrugs. “Good enough to steer a ship from one coordinate to another. Don’t need much else to be a pilot on this ship. But that’s just for the summer.”

“You know what you want to do in the future, then.”

“Sure. Don’t you?”

Chekov runs his hand across a few of the PADDs and sighs. “No. And I am told that I need to decide on a track soon.”

Jim is roused by a small thrill of indignation on behalf of Chekov, who continues on, voice accelerating and pitching higher. “Everything is so interesting— there is no way to choose! I want to learn it all, and someday go into deep space, where I will perhaps discover astral phenomena that have never been encountered before.”

“Listen to yourself, Chekov,” Jim says, turning towards him, “You totally know what you want, and I figure the best thing you can do now is to learn everything that you can. Serving on a starship? That’s all _about_ the unknown. The more knowledge you manage to stuff into your head, the better off you’ll be when you do venture into the black.”

Chekov glances down at the splay of PADDs, a slight frown on his face. Jim’s about to fire off a diatribe about the Academy’s institutional bullshit when a familiar voice sounds over the shipwide broadcast system, sending slight tremors through the metal structures crowding the engineering deck. Jim cocks his head up. He’s heard enough rebuffs from Uhura to recognize her voice anywhere, even though it’s smooth and professional in its current state, rather than mildly annoyed. It’s strangely comforting.

“Captain’s announcement. Two crewmembers have been infected by an unknown disease. As detouring to the nearest equipped starbase would require us to expend significant resources, we are currently deliberating on how to proceed. In the meantime, please exercise precaution in public spaces and follow the appropriate procedures to avoid infection.”

Shit. He’d gotten Bones access to the Amity’s sickbay, but he had failed to account for the privilege of examining the patients themselves. If they were shuttled off to Starbase Wherever-the-fuck before Bones could check them over, Jim would’ve gamed the system and dragged Bones onboard for nothing.

“Nearest comm console, quick,” Jim says urgently; Chekov immediately points off to the side. Jim bolts over and establishes a link to the bridge. “Kirk to bridge. Uhura, I need you to convince the captain to send the patients down to Bones, instead of rerouting to the nearest starbase.”

“What—”

“Bones has a sickbay set up, and he’s been keeping tabs on a mysterious disease afflicting passengers to Berelli. He’ll have a better idea of how to deal with this than any doctor you’d find on some obscure starbase.”

A series of faint gurgles bubbles on the other line. Jim drums his fingers against the console as the seconds stretch away.

After a finale of cacophonous gurgles, Uhura’s voice returns. “We’re sending them down now.”

Finding Bones in the sickbay has to be better than skulking around in the shadows, avoiding the rest of the crew. As he clambers out towards the light, Jim nods at Chekov. “See you around, Chekov. On a ship this small, we’re bound to run each other again eventually.”

 

* * * * * 

 

As it turns out, “sickbay” is a bit of a misnomer.

The first time he opens the door, Jim immediately steps back into the corridor and rechecks the ship schematics on his PADD. The door had opened into a room that was big enough to qualify for supply closet status, _maybe_.

But this has to be it— he’s pretty much gone through every other section of the ship, and no other room could pass for a sickbay. He really doesn’t know why all of his expectations didn’t plummet to zero after he discovered the ship doesn’t even have a weapons locker.

Jim hangs in the doorway for a long, uncertain moment. For one, a quick glance tells him that Bones isn’t there, and for another, Jim’s not totally sure there’s room in there for all four of his enormous human limbs, especially now that the room is brimming with all manner of terrifying medical devices, not to mention a bizarrely short stool. Stepping inside, Jim counts one phoretic analyzer, one subdermal bioprobe, and a biocomputer, and imagines Bones hunched over his lab tech, confined to the stool for hours on end, eyes shadowed with equal parts hopeless despair and vengeful intent. This wasn’t what he’d envisioned when he signed Bones up for the trip.

Jim’s only just leaned over to examine the biocomputer when suddenly,the door swings open, thwacking him in the side.

Jim yelps. At the same time, Bones growls, “Jim, what the hell?”

Behind Bones, someone shouts, “You’ll never take me alive!” and stumbles forward.

“Sulu?” Jim says, taken aback.

“Jshhimm Kirk,” Sulu slurs.

“I suppose I have you to thank for my first two patients,” Bones says to Jim, gesturing back towards Sulu and a few feet down, where the first officer is swaying gently.

“Ohh. He was _sick_. I thought he was just like that. God, that’s a relief. Not that it’s good that he’s sick, obviously, but at least that’s temporary.” Jim watches Sulu as he presses his face into the doorway and makes what appears to be a valiant effort to meld into the ship.

Bones casts a bewildered frown in Jim’s general direction before turning his attentions to a cabinet overhead. After a few seconds of digging, he hauls out a set of cots. The forceful motion upsets a few metallic cannisters and sends them clattering to the floor.

Outside the sickbay, Bones powers the cots on. They clang against the edges of the corridor, unable to unfold to their normal length.

"Dammit!” Bones says, trying to wrestle the cots back into default position. “I can't work in these conditions." He looks around wildly. “Follow me.”

A few minutes of wheedling, shepherding, and dragging later, all four in their party arrive at the entrance of the ship’s recreation room. Bones surveys the room like a general preparing to stake a claim to newly discovered land, his arms loaded with the generous remains of the sickbay. Outfitted with a lone table scattered with a set of faded paper playing cards, the rec room is a dingy little thing, but at least it’s not standing room only.

“Oh, Bones, not the rec room!” Jim exclaims. “Where are we gonna play Gin Rummy now?”

“Shut up and make sure those two stay put. Fair warning: they might throw up on you.” Bones forges into the room and begins setting up his equipment.

Jim looks at Sulu, who’s pulling a face that hints strongly that upchucking is not far on the horizon, posture tilted so haphazardly that he looks like he’s floating in zero g. The first officer, at least, looks serene from his position against the wall. Jim reaches out toward Sulu, not sure where to place his hands, or whether he should be touching him at all. After a few seconds of hovering his hand noncommittally over Sulu’s shoulder blades, Jim crouches down. “Hey, man, you okay?”

“Are you taking care of her?” Sulu whispers, still hunched over. “Oh god, I’m going to fall now.” True to his word, he collapses forward, and Jim barely manages to catch him before he faceplants onto the floor. Bones probably wouldn’t appreciate having to treat a broken nose on top of dealing with an unidentified alien disease.

“Hey, hey, listen,” Jim says, hoping his voice is suitably soothing. He’s really only ever experienced Bones’ bedside manner, but he guesses that assaulting Sulu’s moral shortcomings and mental faculties won’t produce the best results, so instead, he slings an arm around Sulu to heave him up. “You’ll be fine. Bones knows what he’s doing, he’ll be able to fix you up like a pro.”

Sulu lurches against him, head lolling. Suddenly, his head snaps up and he stares at Jim, face shiny with sweat and eyes comically wide. “Pretty... sweet,” Sulu mutters, then allows his face to fall back into the crook of Jim’s neck. Jim’s all for bonding under weird circumstances, but he’s not sure that slowly collapsing under the weight of a hallucinating, perspiring classmate he’s spoken to all of three times could be called sweet.

Jim deposits Sulu onto a nearby cot and looks around. Bones is finishing his campaign to transform the space into a makeshift sickbay, spraying every inch of the place with sanitizing aerosol. Decked out in rudimentary scientific apparatuses and tubes of mysterious, probably flammable chemicals, the rec room is a respectable sickbay substitute.

Jim is in the middle of transferring the First Officer, who’s oddly stiff-faced but cooperative enough, onto the second cot when the door whisks open to reveal Uhura and Spock. Bones looks up with surprise and says, all grace and good manners, “I apologize, I didn’t make a shipwide announcement. Rec room’s shut down, I’m using it as a temporary sickbay. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an alien disease to diagnose, decompound, and treat.”

“We came to see whether we could offer our assistance," Uhura says.

“Given the dimensional constraints of the sickbay, we deduced that you had found it necessary to relocate to a more suitable area,” Spock says. “With its relative spaciousness and the inessential nature of its purpose, the recreation room was the most logical alternative.”

“And here you are,” Uhura says, smiling faintly.

“That’s great and all,” Bones says, blinking a few times, as though to clear a headache brought on by Spock’s onslaught of logic, “But I’m not sure you’ll be much help. The cause is almost certainly a mycotoxin— at this point, it’s just a matter of determining which strain.”

Just then, Uhura’s comm pings. After a glance at the device, Uhura nods at them all, says, “I’m needed on the bridge. The captain needs me to unscramble a few comm signals. Keep me updated,” and disappears into the hallway.

Spock watches her go, then steps around to peer at Sulu, whose arms and legs are dangling off the edge of his cot. “Doctor McCoy, have you considered that the cause of illness may be synthetic, rather than natural?”

Bones stares at Spock. Spock returns the favor and adds, “Excuse me for questioning your authority on the matter, Doctor, but I am not convinced that you have exhausted all avenues of inquiry.”

As Spock’s challenging jab crackles in the air, Jim considers trying to defuse the situation. This train of thought only lasts for a fleeting millisecond, because a not-insignificant part of him is raring to watch Bones, who’s a cranky medical-instrument-wielding master of terror, and Spock, who is Vulcan and therefore presumably also a scary motherfucker, face off in a scientific showdown.

Bones winds up with a huge, readying breath. “Cases of poisoning by synthetic substances don’t look like this! You’d need evidence of an epidermal reservoir effect to pinpoint that as a convincing explanation, and that’s not—”

Locked in rapidfire debate, Spock and Bones make for an interesting study of contrasts. While Bones grows increasingly animated, a flurry of jabbing motions and sharpened pacing, Spock remains rooted to his post by Sulu’s side, hands behind his back. As their fight rages on, Spock grows stiffer and stiffer, taking on the appearance of a flagpole staked into the ground.

Jim tries to interject one time with an observation. Alas, the medical community would never reap the fruits of his genius, because instead of receiving his contributions with gratitude and equanimity, Bones swipes a vicious hand in his direction that almost collides with his face, and Spock turns on him with preternatural speed, completely still but somehow still radiating a tsunami of irritation. Jim retreats meekly to his place in the spectator’s stand.

“You’re missing the point,” Bones shouts, resuming his crusade in full force. “Delivery rates from skin into blood have been far too variable— it wouldn’t be possible for a synthetic to cause the levels of permeation kinetics I’ve observed. The only way synthetics could be involved at all is if we were dealing with a synthesized toxin that was derived from a biological source!”

There’s a split-second pause before Spock responds, voice marginally less superior than before. “Your assessment is correct.”

Bones loosens his crossed arms a fraction of an inch.

Spock continues, “The best possible course of action would be to determine the correlation between protein synthesis inhibition and the concentration of substance in the patients’ bloodstreams. Such a methodology would have the added advantage of—”

“— of extricating the biological and synthetic elements of the substance. Huh.”

Jim has seen that expression on Bones thousands of times before. Although his eyebrows are knitted together, there’s little tension in the set of his mouth, which means his anger’s totally vaporized but he’s still trying to emanate indignation for principle’s sake.  

“Indeed,” Spock says. “The course forward is indisputable.”

“If we isolated the mycotoxins and synthetic toxins into separate strains and determined their multisubstrate enzyme reactions, we might be able to create a composite cure.”

Spock looks as impassive as ever, but Jim thinks he catches a glint of respect in his tone. “You suggest an experiment of no small magnitude, Doctor.”

Bones squints at the ceiling. “It wouldn’t be hard to do if I had an isomolecular analyzer, but all I’ve got is the two-bit menagerie of contraptions you see here.”

“Among my onboard possessions is an isotropic decompiler, which would be sufficient to meet your needs.”

“That... will do,” Bones says with a quick nod. Judging by the jiggle of his right leg, he’s gleeful with anticipation but trying not to forfeit his dignity by showing it.

“I will bring the device down at my earliest convenience.” Spock pauses just outside the door. “This has been a most illuminating conversation.” And then he’s gone.

“I think he likes you,” Jim says, thumping Bones on the back in congratulations of a war well waged. “Don’t go and become best friends with him and Uhura, though. Whoa. Awkwardest double play-dates ever.”

“I hope to god you’re not jealous because I’ve endeared myself to a goddamn Vulcan with misguided opinions on the measurement of toxicokinetics,” Bones says, arms already full with a new collection of hyposprays.

“Please,” Jim says. “Those two could never replace me. I bring joyous sunshine to your life.”

Bones snorts. “Apt comparison, seeing as how excess exposure to you often leads to physiological discomfort and adverse health effects.”

Chuckling, Jim slots his hands into his pockets and rests against the wall, watching Bones as he bustles around calibrating instruments and measuring out chemical substances, comfortable in his element despite ostensibly having been thrown right out of it. There’s no real reason for Jim to be here, but he can already feel his nerves winding down, and between returning to his cramped bunk and making himself useful here, there’s little contest.

“Hey, Bones. Need any help?”

Bones shoots him a frown, but his expression softens when he catches the earnestness on Jim’s face. “Yeah, I could use a second pair of hands,” he says, waving Jim over and instructing him to measure out a thorough list of compounds.

Quiet settles over the room as they set to work. Torn between the tug of restlessness and not wanting to disturb Bones’ concentration, Jim finally speaks up. “Will they be okay?”

“I hope so. I’ve got a good idea of how to progress with the serum, but I know better than to claim anything with certainty.” A few seconds slip by. “Your first shift go well?”

“No. It was shit.” Bones remains silent. “It’s just, every time someone tried to tell me to do something, all I could see was a pack of shadowy Admirals, hanging over me like my own personal fucking storm cloud. And I hate having nothing real to do.”

“I know the situation isn’t ideal, Jim, but what good is acting out going to do you? Do me a favor and run this protodynoplaser over those two, would you?”

Jim takes the device from Bones and approaches Sulu, now garbling and clawing slowly at the air. The poor guy had looked pretty bad in the mess, but not this bad, although Jim supposes it’s easier to be sympathetic towards the disheveled and raving when they’re passed out in a sickbay. Stepping closer, Jim notices a criss-cross of faint green lines over Sulu’s uniform shirt.

He’s jolted with a realization.

Sulu had been the cadet loading the air conditioners. He’d been carrying them at a distance from his body, as though he found them distasteful— not an unreasonable thing, if he was trying to avoid being branded by a leaking A/C unit. And it’s not outrageous to guess that the first officer might’ve lent him a hand.

The air conditioners. They must be laced with some kind of poison.

Overtaken by a growing buzz of questions, Jim’s mind is a live wire, working furiously to piece together fragmented observations.

Whoever responsible must have wanted the cargo to land on Berelli, because why would anyone want to off a freighter full of cadets and merchants?

It’s unlikely that Starfleet would expose its own members to poison, and if Berelli had been expecting a merchant ship, why would Uhura have had to unscramble their comm signals?

A few tendrils of foreboding curl around his gut.

Starfleet wouldn’t have sent them to a hostile planet without weapons. Which means they’d expected the planet to be peaceful.

He needs to warn the captain.

“Bones,” he says, speeding toward the door as quickly as he can without upsetting any of the dozens of scientific apparatuses Bones has unpacked. “I gotta go.”

 

* * * * * 

 

“Fuck,” Jim mutters, glaring hard at the glass screen of the console outside the rec room. In his mind, he can see the ghost of a glowing dot, indicating the captain’s shipboard location a heartbeat ago. Is the ship’s conduit interface patchy enough for the captain’s disappearance to be a glitch? Jim tries a few key combinations, hoping to coax the interface into performing a basic astrospatial calculation and securing the captain’s position. The screen remains resolutely captainless.

So the console isn’t broken, which means Jim has two seconds to dash to the transporter bay and convince the tech on duty to beam the captain back on board. Jim indulges in a groan, then breaks into a run.

The one advantage of being on a runt of a ship, Jim reflects, sprinting past the cafeteria, is that committing an act of insubordination doesn’t require taking five turbolifts and running a half-marathon.

Bursting into the transporter bay, Jim only has time to register the well-lit surroundings and Foot Tapper, hands fixed at the controls, before his attention narrows on Spock, a lone figure atop the single transporter pad, surrounded by gathering ribbons of light.

“Wait!” With no time to terminate the initiation sequence, Jim leaps forward, hoping to land onto the transporter pad. Unfortunately, he wildly overestimates both his natural grace and body mass, so he collides against Spock— still in solid form, thank god— and they tumble off the pad, landing in a sprawling heap at the foot of the control console.

Jim has never seen anyone go from lying on the floor, disgruntled, to standing upright in so few movements and so little time. Spock proceeds to go through what seems like a deeply ingrained routine to straighten his clothes, then reaches up to flatten his bangs. His expression exudes deadly seriousness about regaining full immaculacy.

“Spock!” Jim says, picking himself off the floor, locking his eyes onto Spock’s and bounding forward. “The captain— did he beam down?”

Spock steps back onto the transporter pad and takes a long pause, the kind intended to convey a resounding _fuck you_ in the most delicate way possible. “The captain beamed down to the planet 1.2 minutes ago. As you may have inferred from my present position, my intention was to join him at the earliest possible opportunity.” His gaze shifts to the other cadet. “Cadet, re-initiate transport.”

Jim surges forward. He nearly grabs ahold of Spock’s arm but stops himself at the last second, figuring that manhandling Spock more than once per conversation would be like throwing himself into the path of a deflector beam. Instead, he tries to join Spock on the transporter pad again (definitely only built for one, what the hell is up with this ship?), blocking his view of the other cadet, who’s watching them as though they’re a very compelling holovid.

Spock doesn’t even flinch, just bores into him with an implacable stare.

“So here’s the thing,” Jim says, trying to hide the amount of effort it’s taking him to get onto the tiny polycomposite mound without slipping right off. “You can’t go down there. And we need to beam the captain back up right now, because there’s something weird—”

“You have violated no fewer than twelve safety regulations, Cadet,” Spock says tightly, making no indications that he’s heard Jim, “the most critical among them Section 12D, Safety Protocol 29.11, which states that physical contact of two or more bodies during an initiated transport is permissible only in emergency situations, as deemed necessary by the captain or certified engineering personnel. You understand, I trust, that your actions placed us both at risk of highly unpleasant anatomical and compositional alterations.”

“So I broke some random rule that’s probably been obsolete for a decade. You were 5%, at _most_ 10%, through the dematerialization process. You need to listen to me— we have to retrieve the captain!”

Apparently Spock’s the kind of guy who never lets anything go, least of all the shattering of trivial protocols.

“Had an additional 1.5 seconds passed, your impulsive judgment would have been rendered irrelevant. So limited a buffer was insufficient to guarantee the safety of the individuals involved. Furthermore, please cease your attempts to step onto the transporter pad. As you may have noticed, it is currently occupied. This ship is an Antares-class vessel. As such, its transporter is not equipped to handle weight in excess of 140 kilograms.”

Jim stopped listening like three geological ages ago. He shakes his head. “I’m not leaving until you’ve heard me out. If you do manage to initiate transport, I swear I’ll wait till you’re 90% dematerialized and crash right through you.” It’s a bluff— he’s reckless, not suicidal, and contrary to what Spock might imagine, he’s not really eager to lose any limbs. But Spock’s opinion of him is so low, Jim won’t be surprised if his bluff sneaks right past Spock’s bullshit detectors.

Sure enough, Spock response is accusatory, though it’s shot through with the faintest hint of uncertainty. “You would endanger not only my life but your own to affirm an unfounded supposition.” Jim can practically hear his brain whirring towards the brink of overheating.

“There was a reason you and the captain wanted to transport down— you must know there’s something weird going on down there. I’m telling you, the air conditioners—”

“You do not have permission to beam onto Berelli. Furthermore, based on your apparent predilection for acting without forethought, I have concluded that your presence on the planet would only serve to endanger all parties involved. I must insist that you return to your post.”

Jim really does not have time for this shit. The anger he’s been tamping down for the last five minutes suddenly mounts, breaking past his defenses and flash-flooding his consciousness. He gets up in Spock’s face, respect for personal space be damned, and shouts, “Listen, I know you think I’m a danger to the whole damn Federation because I neglected some arbitrary rule, but can we stop talking about how inept you think I am and focus on the—’

Shutting Jim up when he’s on a tirade always takes a valiant effort. Bones usually wrestles him into submission with thick, scornful silence, while Pike prefers to nuke him with precisely constructed threats.

Spock’s method is new, and it’s particularly effective.

As Spock’s fingers clamp around the base of his neck, Jim starts imagining what life will be like if Spock decides to go and befriend Bones. His mind’s halfway into a vision of Bones and Spock gleefully plotting ways to sedate him when everything around him— the walls of the transporter bay, the close-up of Spock’s stupidly fussy bangs and ferociously angled eyebrows— dissolves into darkness.  

 

* * * * * 

 

When Jim wakes up, the first thing he does is exclaim, “Bastard!” He feels like it’s important that the world be made aware Spock’s extremely uncalled-for behavior. And _he’s_ supposed to be the rash and unpredictable one?

Unfortunately, the audience for his complaints is exactly zero. Spock, Jim guesses, is probably strolling gaily through the Berellian countryside right now. It’d be nice if he were sitting in his quarters, penning a heartfelt note of apology to Jim and reflecting on his many wrongs, but... probably not.

Jim sits up gingerly, wincing as a few bones in his neck crack. He wishes Foot Tapper were still here so that he could shoot her a dirty look, because leaving him there by himself, knocked out cold? Really? Also, freighter floors are _hard_. He settles for shooting a dirty look at the controls.

Jim assesses his options.

He could go onto the Bridge and try to persuade the crew that there’s something afoot on the planet, giving everyone more reason to pelt him with scrutinizing and judgmental stares.

No thanks.

There’s really only one thing to do: beam onto the planet himself and keep Spock and the captain from getting into danger. And, you know, maybe scout out the situation while he’s at it.

Jim climbs to his feet and makes his way onto the transporter pad.

The control console is six feet away. He stares at it.

And then stares at it some more.

Eventually, after casting a wary look around the room and confirming that Spock isn’t crouched in a corner, ready to spring out when he— well, when he does something like this— Jim steps to the edge of the transporter pad and leans forward, fingers outstretched. After nearly tipping onto the floor and getting only three feet closer to the console, he deems this particular duel with gravity a lost cause.

Increasingly outlandish schemes surface to his mind. Maybe he can dismantle the tubing along the wall and use a steel pipe from the ship’s internal infrastructure. Or some kind of pole— there must be a supply closet nearby. Jim dismisses both ideas after a distinctly Bones-like voice in his head barks, “Your life is not a goddamn cartoon, Jim!”

This is maybe the first time Jim’s ever wished that he had tentacles while not submerged in a fog of alcohol-induced whimsy and/or participating enthusiastically in an orgy.

A split second later, he’s struck with a genius idea.

 

* * * * * 

 

Chekov looks less than comfortable sitting at the transporter console.

“I think maybe I should not do this, Mr. Kirk,” he says, leaning forward and peering at Jim with wide, troubled eyes. He keeps running his hands up and down the sides of the console. Jim’s not sure whether he’s trying to rub his sweaty palms dry or seeking comfort in the cool expanse of glass.

“Don’t even worry, it’ll be fine,” Jim says. “You’re a friggin’ prodigy at this stuff!”

“I... ‘prodigy,’ I would not use those words, no!”

“Chekov. What did you get on your first transporter operation field exam?”

“... full marks, sir.”

“Jesus christ, we’re both cadets, at least call me Kirk. Also, _full marks_ on your first try, that definitely qualifies you for prodigy status. Now come on— I just need you to beam me to the same coordinates as the last transport. Easy, nothing to it.”

Chekov swallows and nods. His hands skim across the screen, fingers blurring as they pick up speed. He has the appearance of a slightly jittery but well-practiced musician, caressing his instrument and calling forth symphonic magic with a series of loving keystrokes.

“I have secured spatial coordinates of the previous transport,” Chekov says, voice no longer wavering. “But sir— ah, Kirk— you may wish to know, I detect a strange interference with the targeting scanners. It is two miles away from your end coordinates, so it will not be a problem, I think.”

“An interference? Anything else you can tell me about it?”

“I cannot tell very much— only that there are unusually strong magnetic waves emanating from the area, especially since it appears to be uninhabited.”

“You know what? On second thought, beam me as close to the interference as you can. But before you work your magic...” Jim reaches for his comm— “...give me one second.”

Under Chekov’s gaze, Jim flips his comm open and engages the first channel on his list. As soon as he’s established connection, he says, “Bones! I’ve got something that’ll make your job a whole lot easier. The substance that infected Sulu and the First Officer? I think the A/C units are laced with the stuff. You should go check ‘em out. Gotta go, I’ll talk to you later!”

He switches off the connection before Bones can even growl his name, let alone shoot off a proper response. Turning back to Chekov, Jim rubs his hands together and grins. “Ready when you are. Thanks, Chekov. I owe you one.”

As his body begins to prickle and streams of light rise into his vision, Jim resists the urge to let out a triumphant whoop. After the last hour, he really doesn’t need another transporter-related mishap, but damn is he glad to be leaving the transporter bay behind. The last thing he sees before his vision washes out is Chekov, smiling weakly and sending him off with a half-hearted wave of his hand.


	2. Chapter 2

No wonder the Berellians need air conditioners— moments after Jim reforms, he can feel drops of sweat start to bead on his skin. All around him, the air wavers, heavy with heat. The sun is blood-red, hanging low in the angry crimson sky and casting an ominous glow over the landscape. He collects himself and surveys his surroundings. He seems to have landed in some kind of terraced hillside, covered in lines of purple, bushy plants stretching as far as the eye can see. It’s definitely not the recreational parkland indicated by the maps they’d received in briefing.

He grimaces and runs a finger under his collar; it comes away damp. "Chekov, where's the source of the magnetic interference? Is it close?"

"I think... walk towards the coordinates -11— point 501, 34 point 10— _fsshst_ —" Chekov's voice is choppy, and when Jim looks down at his scanner, the signal bar stutters.

"You wanna repeat that? I got about half of what you're saying."

"Um— I can— be adjust— ignal is unstab—"

Jim waves the scanner in front of him, turning in a circle. Slightly left of the direction of his shadow—roughly towards the peak of the mountain— the scanner's signal bar flickers at an almost imperceptibly faster rate.

The same fields of waving purple plants stretch in that direction as in any other direction, but there's something weird about it all. Why would there be any kind of magnetic signal interference on Berelli, especially given that the area is surrounded by agriculture?

"Chekov, it's fine, I'm gonna go check this out. Stay on the line in case I need you."

"Of cours— _fsssshh_ — irk—"

Time to find out what the hell is going on. With a grunt, Jim starts the hike towards the peak, comm held before him.

The fields seem endlessly long in this heat. After a few minutes, he comes to a terrace and stares up at the solid twelve-foot cliff of dirt and stones. There's nowhere to go but up. He’s going to have to dig his feet in and climb.

And climb he does. He comes across four more terraces on his way to the peak, and with each one that he claws his way over, the spots of sweat on his uniform spread until his entire shirt is plastered to his skin. As lines of sweat trail down the sides of his face, he reflects somberly on the collection of air conditioners resting unused in the cargo hold of the Amity.

Finally, he peels off his sweat-soaked shirt, and he's rolling up the hem of his pants to get across this last field, ankle-deep in irrigated mud when he hears it— a faint vibration in the air, like a hum, or the rumble of a good bass system. When he glances down at his comm, the signal is nearly indecipherable.

"Chekov?" he tries. "Can you hear me?"

Static. Then, "K-k—hear—nal—"

He tucks his comm into his pocket, and as he treks forward, the humming intensifies, shuddering through him.

With his next step forward, a sudden electric sensation skitters up his calf like a nervous cat. Abruptly, grotesquely— painlessly— his leg disappears up to the knee.

Jim muffles a shriek, scrambles backwards, and lands on his ass, grabbing at his ankle. His leg is whole again, untouched. "What the fuck—"

He rolls up onto his feet and reaches out cautiously. It seems to be some kind of optical shield, maybe even a stealth field. This must be what's been jamming their transporter and communication signals.

He should wait for backup. In fact, he should retreat and locate a clear signal, comm Chekov, and request that he send down a team of... poorly armed, probably incompetent merchant ship crew members.

Or not.

Jim sticks his arm straight into the field, grimacing as the vibration jounces the bones of his skull and sets his teeth to chattering. When he draws his arm back, the hairs of his forearm are all standing upright. It's kinda cool, watching parts of himself vanish into thin air. If he takes a quick second to wiggle his arm around and pull it in and out for shits and giggles— look Ma, no hands!— it's not like anyone will ever have to know.

Then he hears an ominous click in front of him. Jim freezes. It _looks_ like there's nothing up ahead besides a field of gently rustling purple fronds— but it also looks like he’s got no right hand.

He's just starting to roll into a defensive crouch when a rough, scaly hand closes around his wrist and yanks him roughly forward. The air ripples around him as he's dragged through a wall of intense harmonic vibration, and suddenly he finds himself smack-dab in the middle of—

A circle of soldiers, covered from head to toe in military gear, eyes peering out of slits. Some are smirking. All are armed. Judging by those atomizer guns and the tall, spiraling compound behind them, these aliens definitely don't come in peace.

Shit.

 

* * * * * 

 

Clapped in cuffs that clamp around his wrists with an unbreakable band of energy, binding his arms behind his back, he’s marched towards the imposing black building, a spiraling tower reaching up thirty or so stories with ledges jutting out at each level. The ledges are a mystery until a shuttle whizzes past overhead and bursts through the stealth shield to maneuver onto what Jim comes to realize is a landing platform.

The inside of the compound is all black tile and glossy surfaces, save for where bulky mechanical contrivances are welded in. The walls are covered in unfamiliar signage, definitely not the elegant Berellian curlicues they were briefed on prior to the mission. He’s shoved into an elevator tube, technology he's only seen in period holofilms and histories, which makes a strange sort of sense— the whole compound is a bizarre mix of advanced black market technology and low-tech native Berellian architecture. This close to his captors, he can see the startling yellow of their eyes, tinged green at the edges. What kind of shit did Starfleet send them into?

The elevator tube rumbles and, with a metallic shriek, shoots up what the tiny viewscreen displays as seventeen floors. He's then dragged by a pair of soldiers to a corridor of imposing metal doors.

They don't even bother to frisk him before throwing him into the cell. Once the guards leave, he groans and rolls up awkwardly from the floor. At least he’s still got his comm. He activates it through his pocket with the heel of his thumb.

"Chekov? You there?" Only faint static in return. It only makes sense that the signal would've cut off inside the stealth field.

He takes a quick look around the otherwise featureless room, and has to smother a laugh when he realizes that there’s an honest-to-god cheap electronic lock on the door. Better yet, there’s some kind of metal box on his side, and he’d bet anything that it houses the circuits of the lock.

They underestimated him, not that he can blame them. He did kind of invite himself to be captured at the edge of the stealth field, flapping his arms around like that. They might even think he’s a harmless Berellian— it’s not like he’s got on a Starfleet-issue shirt to indicate otherwise. Man. Some aliens. They think all humanoids look alike.

He turns away from the door, hands still cuffed behind his back, and carefully runs his fingers over the metal box, feeling for the seam around the edge. Picking at it does nothing. He tries angling the band of solid energy linking his cuffs against the box instead, and after painstaking effort, manages to force it underneath the seam and pry off the panel.

He turns to inspect the contents of the box. A thicket of wires and old-fashioned circuits— low-tech Berellian hardware. He was disassembling this kind of stuff by the time he was six.

Craning his head around every few seconds to check that he's holding the right connectors, he fumbles with the delicate wires, hoping that he doesn’t accidentally jolt himself with a wallop of electricity.

Twenty minutes later, the gears behind the door start whirring, set against a crop of periodic ticks. Holding his breath, he listens as, one by one, the mechanisms of the lock slot into place. As the silence following the last tick swells into seconds, he releases a sigh of relief and knocks his head against the door, absurd, inappropriate laughter bubbling up his throat.

He did it. He hacked a door-mounted lock control with his hands literally tied behind his back. Who's awesome? He's awesome.

But it’s no time to celebrate, because now he’s got to contend with the fact that he's seventeen floors up in a giant military compound.

There’s nowhere to run.

Except maybe...

Outside, the border of the stealth field was pretty close to the compound. He can probably assume that the field envelops the tower in an ellipsoid shape. If he gets onto the roof, he might be able to locate the edge of the field, comm Chekov, and beam the hell out.

The door screeches when he pushes against it, cracking a slit. He’s about to heave it open when he hears in the hallway a whisper of approaching footsteps. He quickly yanks the door back into place.

His heart is hammering as the footsteps grow louder and louder, cutting away with a final thud in front of his door. In his mind, he chants frantically: _don’t check the lock don’t check the lock don’t check the lock..._

A few tense seconds later, the footsteps resume and soften into the distance.

Jim waits for his heart to settle, then slides down to the floor. At his guess, the patrols have been coming by every five minutes, and it sounds like they’re making the rounds up the building, rather than down, probably to apprehend anyone attempting an escape to the ground floor.

Good thing that’s not where he’s going.

He hasn’t heard any patrols progressing down the spiral, so there must be an elevator tube at the peak to transport the guards back down. If he times it right, he’ll be able to make it onto the roof without being seen.

Jim shoves against the door with his shoulder, cringing as the grind of rusty hinges daggers through his eardrums. After slipping through the crack, he pushes the door closed. With just a few minutes left until the next patrol marches by, he can’t waste any time.

The next few floors pass by in a blur. Every so often, the slight sound of echoing footsteps drops into the air, forcing him to duck into the nearest alcove. Finally, he passes by an elevator tube framed in burnished metal. Next to it is an unassuming door.

Praying that it's the right one, he pushes the handle with his elbow and backs it open.

Hot air blows past his face. Bones always said he had the luck of the devil.

Stunned and panting in relief, he drinks in the view of Berelli. A mass of purple fields is enclosed around the compound, packed onto the terraces breaking up the hill. Beyond that, there are only a few dots of purple on the horizon, scattered between shocking magenta trees.

As he takes a few steps forward, the humming intensifies, vibrating through his teeth.

Remembering what it was like to pass directly through the stealth field, he knows he’s approaching the furthermost edge when it starts to feel like his body might split apart from the seismic rattling in his cells. But just as he’s about to reach the border, he realizes with a jolt that with one more step, he’ll be staring a 300-meter drop in the face.

He shuffles back a few steps and presses his wrist to his comm. "Chekov?" No response.

So he has to think of a way to get past the stealth field without falling to his death. How the fuck is he going to pull that?

Some electric change in the air alerts him to danger: it’s difficult to hear anything through the thrum of the stealth field, but if he listens carefully, he can make out a buzz of voices.

He needs more time. Looking around, he spots a series of vents, each one covered in a metal grate. Perfect. He kicks over one of the grates, pushes it over to the door with his foot, and, grunting, maneuvers it underneath the door handle.

He doesn’t bother to hold back a frustrated groan. So close, yet so, so far. If only he could jump ten meters and hang in the air for long enough to contact Chekov, or cobble together a ledge sticking out beyond the stealth field, or— fuck. It’s no use. He's going to die here, and he was stupid, and Bones is going to kill him except he's going to be dead already, and he should've called for backup, and he's never going to live this down, literally.

And now there’s pounding on the door. The metal shakes with the force of each blow. Someone shouts in an indiscernible tongue, muffled by the metal and wind and all-encompassing energy field.

He's so fucked. He's dead— he's screwed— he's up shit’s creek without a paddle, not even a fucking _stick_. There aren't words invented for how completely fucked he is.

Then he sees a silvery outline, hovering towards one of the ledges beneath him. It's a shuttle of some kind— and they haven't spotted him yet, Jim realizes, because he's inside the stealth field.

An idea starts to form.

It's a stupid idea. But he's the king of stupid ideas.

He backs up until he’s standing on the opposite side of the roof, heart pounding in counterpoint to the thunderclaps quaking the door. Suddenly, the door crashes open, and a swarm of gun-toting soldiers comes pouring out. Carried through on instinct alone, Jim zigzags and feints around the clobber of bodies as shots whiz past. At the edge of the roof, he launches forward, bursting through the field and straight into the air.

Wind screams past his face and his stomach flips as he enters freefall, the top of the shuttle hurtling at him dangerously fast.

He slams onto the shuttle, buckling onto his knees in a graceless landing. He timed his jump almost perfectly, but he hadn’t realized that the shuttle would tip under his weight, throwing him to the side. The metal is burning hot— against his shins, his thighs, and his bare arms and back most of all. He hardly has time to register the painful, fiery sensation before he realizes that he’s starting to slide off the edge of the shuttle.

"Shit!" he yells, slamming his wrist against his comm and trying to squirm forward on the wildly careening aircraft. "Chekov, do you copy! CHEKOV!"

Chekov's voice is scratched through with static, but it's the most beautiful, angelic sound he's ever heard in his life. "Kirk? Where—"

"Beam me up, Chekov, BEAM ME UP!" He's skidding off, he's going to topple over the side, bullets are pinging off the surface around him, and his knees are scrabbling for purchase against nothing—

"Nownow _now_!" he screams. At the last moment, his feet find nothing but air, and he's plummeting, heart beating triple-fast, stomach shooting up into his throat.

As a rush of purple blankets his vision, he's engulfed by bands of light.

The world disappears into roaring whiteness.

 

 

* * * * * 

 

His awareness cuts to black.

For a long moment, he hangs in tense, unquantifiable limbo, cells pulling at the fray but finding nothing solid to grasp.

He’s dead. He must be. Rematerialization never takes this long. He was stupid and reckless, and now he’s dead, and he didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to anyone, or— fuck, he didn’t even get to beat Pike’s dare—

Then he slams, full-bodied, against yet another solid surface.

Is he dead now?

Prying his eyes open, Jim can’t make anything out but shadows and blurred shapes. He rolls forward, wheezing.

As his vision adjusts, he’s met with the sight of Chekov, standing over the console, an unruly mass of stray curls sweeping over his forehead, shoulders rising with each heave of breath.

Jim never imagined that returning to the Amity would fill him with such relief. He’s sailing on a crest of adrenaline, and it’s such a high that he can barely feel the pain spindling through his body, the burn in his side from frictioning across blazing hot metal.

He’s _alive_ , he’s totally unbeatable— take _that_ , you damn Admirals, what was that about working off inaccurate hunches, again?

Lying with his arms still cuffed behind his unclothed back, he’s not in the most comfortable position. As he tries to wriggle upright, the sweat slicking his skin causes him to slide off the pad and onto the floor. Chekov, goggle-eyed, looms into view, upside-down.

Jim greets him with a broad grin. “Major props, Chekov.” He coughs, trying to regain his breath. “My ashes would’ve been scattered to the nonexistent Berellian breeze if it hadn’t been for you.”

“Er…” Chekov says, on a fruitless fishing expedition for an appropriate response. “You… you lost your shirt?”

“Yeah, looks like it, huh?” After a moment’s struggle, Jim manages to lean up against the transporter platform. He turns halfway around and raises his cuffed hands at Chekov. “A little help?”

Chekov makes quick work of the handcuffs, and as soon as his wrists are released, Jim stumbles to his feet and shakes out his arms. He rounds off the routine with the whoop he’d been holding down since his departure.  

When Jim glances over at Chekov, he’s expecting him to look relieved, euphoric. Instead, Chekov’s forehead is creased with lines, and he seems to be bristling with nervous energy. Jim’s about to ask him what’s wrong when Chekov’s pocket lets loose a hectic stream of beeps.

Chekov draws out his comm and hands it to Jim. “For you, I think.”

Jim checks the screen. Bones.

Well. No reason to delay the inevitable. Time to bravely face his doom.

Starting his way out of the transporter bay and toward the rec room, Jim engages the comm and serves up a casual, “Heeyy, Bones.”

“ _Jim_. God, you—” Bones’ voice breaks away for a second, and in the ensuing quiet, Jim nearly thinks that Bones has disconnected the link. But then he catches, distant on the other end of the line, a shaky release of breath. The comm connection crackles with a slight filament of static.

Bones doesn’t let the weighted silence survive for long, returning to the comm with precipitous aggression.

“Jim, you fucking idiot, what kind of shit do you think you’re pulling, calling me right before you beam onto a foreign planet, and then fucking turning off your comm? I swear to Jesus fucking Christ, what is wrong with you? Why would you ever think that was appropriate behavior?”

Someday, Jim promises the universe, he’ll repent for the loads of distress that he regularly causes Bones, but right now is not the time.

His response comes off breezier than he intends. “You gotta trust me, Bones. I do this stuff for good reasons, not because I’m trying to drive you to an early grave.” The rec room enters Jim’s line of sight. “The point is, you won’t believe what I found, and I’m back safely, so no harm done. Also, hi.” Jim shuts his comm gaily, motions to Chekov, and steps inside.

Bones has his back to the door. Probably distracted compiling a comprehensive list of Ways In Which Harm Has Been Done in his head, he has yet to notice that Jim is less than a room’s length away. Jim narrows the distance between them with a few careful steps.

Bones continues to shout into his comm. “Do you even have any idea what’s been going on up here while you were busy playing tourist? And what the hell do you mean, _hi_?”

“I meant, hi,” Jim says.

Bones whips around, bearing remarkable resemblance to a prodded rattlesnake.

“Hi,” Jim continues, “As in, good to see you, Bones, how are you, I’ve really missed your uncontrollable fits of rage.”

In a flash, Bones has descended upon him with a scanner. Expression screwed into a scowl, he sweeps it down Jim’s body, wordless and efficient, then grabs a dermal regenerator and starts repairing the angry patches of peeling skin that are mapped out all across Jim’s left side. Jim hadn’t even noticed.

After checking the readings and apparently finding them satisfactory, Bones says, “Sonic shower. Around the corner. Go.”

“Come on, Bones—”

Bones just points.

Jim tramps off.

Casting his mud-caked boots and pants onto the floor, he steps into the shower, overtaken with an immediate wave of relief as the sonic pulses pound away grime and sweat from his body. Reemerging after three minutes, he finds outside the stall a fresh uniform set, folded into a neat square beside a clean pair of boots.

Bones and Chekov are waiting for him back in the other room, silent. Judging by Chekov’s darting glances at the door, they’ve been mired in wordless anticipation for the last several minutes.

“Thanks,” Jim says, approaching Bones. “Y’know. For the clothes.”

Bones reaches out and seizes hold of Jim, right hand clamped over the slope of his neck. Sometimes Jim forgets that, despite his suspicion of adventure and all associated concepts, Bones is more than physically capable.

Feeling heat rise to his cheeks, Jim licks, briefly, at the corner of his lip, if only to do something with his face while Bones dismantles him under his stare. He’s trying to think of ways to slink away when Bones’ left hand swoops in out of nowhere and fires a hypospray right into his neck.

Jim yells out an enraged, “FUCK!” He reacts on primal impulse and attempts to fling his body away, but Bones knows him too well—  grip tightened, he holds Jim in place.

“Holy shit, man, that’s definitely playing dirty,” Jim says, grimacing and palming at his neck.

“You keep your goddamn mouth shut, you’re not allowed to talk for at least five hours,” Bones growls, keeping his hand propped against the base of Jim’s neck. Bones tugs him forward until the tricorder sitting atop the table is within his reach. He starts running it over Jim, who can’t remember Bones being so thorough during a checkup before.

When Bones tells him to lift his arms so that he can scan his armpits, Jim remarks, “You’re being more gung-ho about the nightmare doctor routine than usual.”

Bones stills, then slowly lowers his hand. “Jim.”

Unsettled, Jim feels his brain kick into overdrive as it tries to uncover the source of Bones’ quiet grief. Flicking a quick glance around the room, Jim notes the faint whirring of medical tech, Sulu, snoring mildly on a cot in the corner, and— Jim searches for any sign of the first officer. His eyes land on a sheet-covered mound next to a neat row of lab equipment.

“The first officer.”

Bones nods.

“Bones... “ Jim reaches out to grip his arm. “I’m sorry. Sulu— is he okay?”

“He’s fine for now. I managed to create a stabilizing serum, but the physiology of the First Officer reacted more severely to it than I expected.”

They fall into a reflective silence. Bones allows himself a few slow blinks, then clears his throat, glances over Jim’s shoulder, and says, “Kid, you’re gaping like a landed guppy. If you’ve got something to say, there’s not much sense in waiting.”

Jim half-turns to look at Chekov. Bones is right— his mouth is open in a way that suggests he’ll start gushing out torrents of information at the slightest prompting. Jim wonders how long he’s been standing there with his comm out, anticipating an appropriate crack in the conversation to slip into.

Chekov visibly gathers himself and straightens. “Just after you beamed back aboard, the USS Amity lost communication with the landing party.”

Jim does a double-take. “Holy shit, Chekov! Was that what you wanted to tell me back in the transporter room? That’s kind of important!”

“It was only a suspicion then, and then Doctor McCoy commed, and he had said to tell him first thing when you beamed back up,” Chekov says nervously. “But I have just received confirmation from Cadet Uhura.”

An embryonic thought, simultaneously alarming and amazing, starts to take shape in Jim’s mind.

“So let me get this straight,” Jim says carefully, trying not to go ballistic without confirming the facts. “The captain can’t be reached.”

“Yes, that is correct,” Chekov says.

“And Spock can’t be reached either.”

“Yes.”

“And the first officer is—” Jim glances at Bones for confirmation. “Dead.” Bones, signature frown in position, tips his head in acknowledgment.

“Annnd,” Jim continues, unable to stop himself from rocking forward. “There are no other passengers with significant command experience.”

“That is true, I believe,” Chekov agrees.

“So what you’re telling me,” Jim says— and he shouldn’t feel so elated, he’s only in this position because some bad shit went down, but he can’t help it— “Is that I’m in command of this ship.”

Bones squawks, “ _What_?” in what Jim considers to be a tone of unwarranted skepticism. On the other hand, Chekov nods vigorously.

“You knew?” Jim says. He vows to solicit a report-out from Chekov at least once every five minutes in the future.

“Yes, like I said, I had the suspicion before I beamed you aboard.”

“Damn,” Jim says, “If you had welcomed me back with that, I probably would’ve kissed you on the spot.”

Chekov’s one of those instantaneous, full-faced blushers. Bones hisses, “He’s _fifteen_ , Jim!” He sounds so scandalized that Jim almost checks to see whether he has a hand pressed to his overtaxed heart.

Then Bones grasps his shoulder, an almost gentle gesture. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Jim?” His voice is low, like he hasn’t settled on whether he wants Chekov to hear.

Jim makes an effort to consider the question, he really does. But all he can feel is the wild beat of his heart, the pump of blood reverberating with particular force against his skull. It’s like he’s standing on a precipice, thrilling for the fall, and that sensation, that potential— it's all he needs to convince himself that this is a good idea.

Besides, even if he didn’t think it were, Bones should know better than to expect him to admit it.

Jim responds the only way he knows how: with a high-wattage grin and a generous helping of swagger. “Don’t underestimate me and Amy,” he says, “We’re gonna make a hell of a team.”

Bones groans, and even Chekov looks like he might have just lost a small smidge of respect for Jim.

“In all seriousness,” Jim says, “We’ve got two crewmembers to save, not to mention an interplanetary plot to foil. Chekov, I’ll need you on the bridge. Bones, you too.”

“That’s not going to be possible,” Bones says. “I’m the only medical staff on this ship, and I’ve got a recovering patient to watch over.”

Jim’s already formulating a plan. Bones will try to gut it the moment he hears it and Jim’ll have to wheedle indiscriminately, but eventually, Bones will concede, as long as he’s allowed to continue broadcasting unrelenting disapproval.

“Bones, Chekov,” Jim says, nerves still singing over the ridiculous turn of events. “First order of business. Under my command? No such thing as ‘not possible.’”

 

* * * * * 

 

True to form, Bones rejects the idea immediately.

Also true to form, Jim is having none of that.

“It’ll be fine,” Jim insists. He takes a few preemptive steps toward Sulu’s cot. It’s no joke, breaching the stronghold that is Bones’ reluctance-centered life philosophy, but Jim’s gotten very good at it over the years. “You said yourself, he’s in stable condition.”

Bones braces his hands on his hips. “Just because he’s stable, doesn’t mean we should be taking him on joyrides through the ship!”

“It’s just transferring him to the bridge,” Jim says patiently. Getting Bones to agree to something is like trying to shove an ornery cat into a bath. “And if you’re worried about unsanitary conditions, don’t forget where we are right now. This room is designated for recreation, and, as you have reminded me many times before, that can get real unhygienic real fast.”

Bones purses his lips, a sure sign that he’s one exchange, maybe two, away from relenting.

Jim’s ready with the clincher. “You barely have the beginnings of a sickbay set up here. Moving the most critical instruments won’t be a problem. On the bridge, you’ll be able to monitor Sulu and help us figure out what’s going on. Win-win.”

A few moments pass, during which Jim watches Bones struggle internally, his resolution strung tight between opposite poles.

Finally, Bones throws his hands up and says, “Fine! I don’t know why I ever bother trying to say no to your damn schemes.”

Jim grins and moves around to grab hold of Sulu’s cot. “You’d save us a lot of time if you automatically agreed to all of my ideas,” he says, carefully maneuvering the floating cot toward the door. “But this is a lot more fun.”

As they round the corner to the turbolift, Jim glances back at Chekov, who’s walking a few feet behind. “Chekov, do you have any idea how we lost connection with the landing party?”

Chekov shakes his head and joins them in the turbolift. “I had time only to notice that their signal stopped broadcasting.”

Jim nods absently, attention caught by the chrono display on the wall of the turbolift. Huffing a laugh, he says, “My shift would be starting right now, if I were still helmsman. I hope Amy doesn’t mind auto-piloting until we find a replacement.”

“Starfleet has over 4,000 Starfleet regulations,” Bones says. “Surely, at least one of them forbids crewmembers from anthropomorphizing their ships.”

Jim just tips his chin up in mock pomposity and sails through the turbolift doors onto the bridge, enjoying his newfound _I’m Acting Captain and I’ll do what I want_ trump card. He realizes that he left Bones and Chekov to deal with Sulu on the turbolift, but it’s too late to turn back— images must be preserved, and decisions must be followed through on.

When he steps out of the turbolift and gazes out at the bridge, it’s through the lens of fresh potential. The viewscreens, the consoles— even the back-breaking chairs— all look sleek and spotless to his eyes. Uhura is the only crewmember present to witness his glorious entrance, but she’s bent over her console, looking somewhat harried, although that’s probably only because of the high bar for impeccability she usually sets.

A clatter rings through the silence of the bridge, breaking his contemplation. It’s punctuated by a curse, and Jim looks behind him to see the cot caught in the doorframe of the turbolift, and Bones behind it, looking murderous. Jim makes a hasty retreat to help liberate the cot, then moves toward the console where Uhura is sitting.

Uhura looks at him sideways. “Kirk. I was just about to comm you. I assume Chekov informed you of the command change. You’re feeling fit to serve responsibly, I hope.” She holds his gaze, face a fragment too neutral to be characterized as challenging.

“You wouldn’t believe the head rush I’m dealing with, but I’ll work through it,” Jim says cheerfully. “Chekov said you’d know why we lost connection with the landing party. Full report, please.”

Her response is entirely professional, but it’s devoid of any traces of friendliness. “We lost connection with the landing party as they neared the signal interference. We believe the interference indicates a shielded compound of sorts. The landing party’s movement patterns suggest that they were captured and taken to the compound. We haven’t been able to establish connection with them since.”

“And the timing?” Jim asks, quickly trading glances with Chekov, who’s come around to stand on his left.

“The erratic movements began at 13:07, and the signal cut out at 13:25.”

Something uncomfortable snags in Jim’s chest. 13:07— around the time of his first unfriendly encounter on Berelli. Judging by Chekov’s face, the kid has figured it out, too. The last of his jubilation peters out, leaving behind a residual stain of guilt for having felt exhilarated at all, and for the first time since realizing that the Amity is in his command, Jim wonders how he’s qualified to hold a dozen lives in his hands. He quashes the thought before it can invite along any other pointless questions.

“May I ask something?” Uhura asks, shattering his reflection. She continues on without waiting for Jim to respond. “I couldn’t get ahold of you during your off-shift hours— what happened to your comm signal?”

Jim barely has time to weigh the relative merits of revealing the full truth versus cobbling together a clumsy half-truth before Bones interjects from his right. “It’s pretty difficult to receive a link when you’ve gone planetside and turned off your comm.”

Uhura stands immediately and turns on Jim, ponytail lashing to the side. “You _what_? How did you even beam down there?”

He draws to full height on instinct. “Interesting story—”

“Jim,” Bones grits, cutting him off, “Tell me you didn’t go planetside without permission from the bridge.”

“Well, I didn’t turn off my comm signal on purpose,” Jim says cagily.

“No,” Bones says, crossing his arms and looking Jim square in the eye, the rare streak of genuine anger on display, “You just wandered into a shielded compound without any backup. Much better.”

His skin heats at the remark. As he’s trying to come up with a response that doesn’t scream sullen teenaged delinquent, Chekov’s quavering voice rises up.

“I am sorry,” he cries, “I should not have beamed him down! And Captain, I am sorry I was not strong enough to resist your persuasive techniques!”

The tension in the room deflates, and an awkward silence drifts over the bridge.

Finally, Bones says, “The sentiment is appreciated, kid, but you’re not the one on trial here.”

Uhura gives Chekov a reassuring smile before falling back into a frown. After a period of deep concentration, she says slowly to Jim, “Yours was the anomalous Starfleet comm signal that I detected near the interference. The one that cut out when the landing party started tracking away from the Berellian palace. Kirk, what exactly did you do down there?” Her voice trembles with rising anger. “Why were you near the compound?”

The resentment that blooms in Jim’s skull is familiar. Just like that, he’s back in Iowa, nothing but an adolescent fuck-up, trapped under the narrow, sneering expectations of everyone who thinks they’ve got him figured out. “Does that matter? Don’t you think we’ve got bigger issues to deal with, like, y’know, saving the captain and Spock?”

“It matters because nobody here has any idea what’s going through your head, Kirk!”  

“You wanna know what’s going through my head? Let me lay it out for you: we need to _rescue the landing party_.”

“We don’t have the capacity to rescue anyone,” Bones says. “If anything, we should broadcast a distress signal.”

“And if it’s too late by the time help arrives?” Jim turns away stiffly. “I’m going back down there.”

Uhura and Bones both round on him, matched in furious disbelief.

“Jim, you can’t be serious.”

Uhura bites out, “So the first thing you’re going to do as Acting Captain is go down to the planet where we _just_ lost the actual captain?”

“Listen! I escaped the compound once, and I can do it again. Sending me back down there is the best chance we’ve got for rescuing the captain and Spock.”

“That’s not how—” Uhura stops, closes her eyes and breathes in deep, and continues. “That’s not how this works! Why do you think you got captured in the first place? Why do you think Spock and the captain were captured? Because you went down there without a plan! What happens if you get lost, or killed, Kirk? What then?”

“We can worry about that when it happens.”

“No, actually, we can’t,” Bones says. “Will you get it into your head that there’s a very high chance that you’ll die if you try to go down there yourself?”

“I’ve got it under control.”

“Control, Kirk? What do you know about _control_?”

Something in him splinters.

Whatever it takes to retrieve the landing party before they’re hurt, or interrogated, or— anything else, he’s gonna do it. And he’ll do it with or without anyone’s help.

He plasters on a broad smile and steps back to face his makeshift crew. “You know what? You’re right,” he says, hands up. “Nobody’s going down there until we’ve made the appropriate preparations. Uhura, I’ll need you to continue trying to reestablish communications with the planet, and with the landing party. Try to route the channel into the ancillary interchange system. Chekov, I want you to come down to Engineering with me to see whether we can reconfigure the navigational deflector to emit a graviton beam. If anyone who tries to shoot at us, we need a way to defend ourselves.”

Chekov nods, and Uhura, with a final suppressed glower, slides back into her console seat. Bones, though, pins Jim with a penetrating look as Jim turns to walk toward the turbolift. Jim forces himself to loosen his stride, to uncoil, at least in appearance, the tautness that’s running through his limbs, trying not to betray the effort it’s taking to keep from spiraling into the recesses of his rage.

Jim is about to step onto the turbolift when Bones calls to him. “Jim. Remember the favor I asked you that day at the hospital?”

Jim pauses with his hand against the turbolift entryway.

_Try not to do anything too idiotic._

He turns around slowly to face Bones. His body feels stiff with desperation— it arrows through his squared shoulders, his clenched fists. As their eyes meet, Jim tries to cut through the tension with a laugh, but it sounds leaden to his ears.

Bones can see right through him. And now Uhura is staring, too, and there’s no way Chekov isn’t as well. Their collective scrutiny weighs down on him. He needs to get out, get off the ship, get onto the planet, do something, anything, he needs to move, _now_ , or—

“Jim.” Bones approaches him, places his hands just above his elbows. Jim comes close, so close, to wresting his body away, to getting onto the turbolift and throwing himself down the path of his convictions.

But Bones’ presence is solid— it always has been.

“Trust me, Bones,” Jim says, and his smile feels too tight, but he keeps it in place. “I know what I need to do.”

Bones shakes his head, and there’s something hazy and sad skimming the surface of his frown. “You know what you think you need to do. This isn’t a chance to prove that going down to the planet wasn’t a bad move. It was, and you know it. But you don’t fix things by repeating the same mistake, Jim. If you’re going to fix things, at least do it right.”

For a long moment, the bridge is suspended in silence.

Jim doesn’t move. Neither does anyone else.

The realization starts out with a murmur. It grows clearer and clearer, crashing through his mind and parting the red previously beating behind his vision.

What the fuck was he thinking?

Bones is right.

Bones is totally right. Uhura, too.

Fuck, he's a stupid shit sometimes.

Strand by strand, Jim’s anger unravels, and the howling in his brain recedes, leaving a hollow calm in its wake. He can feel the tenseness in Bones fade, too. Bones drops his hands.

Jim offers him a faint smile, and brushes his fingers against his as he moves past him on his way to the center of the bridge.

From her seat at the console, Uhura watches him, expression still singed at the edges, while Chekov follows his movements with earnest anticipation. Jim licks his lips and faces the others, holding each of their gazes in turn.

“I shouldn’t have beamed down without informing anyone."

To Jim’s surprise, the silence holds.

Clearing his throat, he adds, "Or kept information from you all. Or tried to go down again just now. That was stupid. I know I fucked up, and I’m sorry.”

He lets the apology sit in the air for a few seconds.

“Okay...” he says, nodding at them, the brief lull in his mind already replaced by a static pulse that leaps through his nerves. “New plan. Well, revised plan. Still rescuing the captain, and Spock, but maybe this time we look before we leap.”

“So,” Jim says, “the planet’s already been overtaken by a hostile entity, which I’m guessing means that the toxin wasn’t targeted at the Berellians.”

The others stare at him. After a heartbeat—

“Toxin?”

“What hostile entity?”

“Targeting the Berellians? Jim, what are you talking about?”

“Yeah,” Jim says, rubbing at the back of his neck, “I should start at the beginning, huh? Okay, so…”

As Jim explains the convoluted leaps he took to conclude that the A/Cs are laced, he notices a trace of antagonism seep out of Uhura’s features. With her arms crossed and her hip at a jut, she’s still projecting wariness— and Jim can’t blame her— but at least she’s listening. When he finishes, Bones nods. “I checked the cargo, and the substance matches whatever infected Sulu and the First Officer.

“Okay,” Jim says, pacing the center of the bridge, “We know the air conditioners are laced with toxin, so— well, first of all, stay away from the cargo hold. By the way, Bones, what’ve you figured out about the substance?”

“‘Stay away from the cargo hold’ is right— you won’t be infected unless you come into contact with the toxin, although inhaling the stuff isn’t a great idea either. The magnitude of exposure matters, too. We’re dealing with a trichothecene mycotoxin that’s been synthesized with atrazine.”

“So don’t go swimming in the stuff, got it. How’s the serum coming along?”

“I’ve got a good idea of what needs to happen next in the development process, but until I come up with a way to replicate the missing compounds, all we’ll have on our hands is a useless cocktail of chemicals.”

“What do you need? Materials or equipment?”

“Both— if the compound were available, I’d take it in a heartbeat, but otherwise, I’d likely be able to synthesize the last few compounds, given access to more advanced equipment and enough time.”

Jim nods. “Last resort, we make a stop at the nearest starbase after we get back our crew.”

Uhura addresses Jim in a clipped, professional tone, lightly frosted over with skepticism. “If we’re going to do that successfully, we could really use some information on the beings in the compound. Given the technological complexity of the stealth field, I assume they weren’t Berellians. I did think it was strange for them to have requested air conditioning units.”

“Well,” Jim says, “You’re right. That house of horrors was definitely not built by Berellians. Pretty sure they weren’t the ones shooting at me, either. By the way,” he adds quickly, cutting Bones off before he can make a fuss about exactly how near Jim’s near-death situation was, “I kept seeing signs with these symbols on them." He reaches over the communications console screen and cocks his head at Uhura. “D’you mind?” At her nod, he sketches out a few characters on the screen. “Mean anything to you?”

Uhura bends over and squints at the screen.

“Considering the partial reduplication of this morpheme and the diagonal direction of their orthography, I’d say that’s heavily reminiscent of Jelinean. It’s a dialect of one of the Beta Quadrant trading languages.” Uhura tilts her head to reexamine the fragmented swoops, then nods in satisfaction. “That’s definitely Jelinean."

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about these Jelineans, would you?”

With one hand, Uhura flips her ponytail to the side. She lifts her chin at Jim, but her eyes aren’t cold. “What little we learned about them in Advanced Interspecies Ethics, I still remember. I do know that they’ve been operating under military rule for a few decades now. You probably encountered their occupation forces.”

“Jelineans using a biological weapon. Feasible?”

“Possible, of course, but highly doubtful,” Uhura says, almost instantly. “Current Jelinean cultural norms heavily emphasize the cultivation of mechanical skills— it would be uncharacteristic of them to rely on a biological weapon.”

“I do not think the Jelineans would use a biological weapon, also,” Chekov says. “I was able to run an analysis on their parametric frequencies, and I believe their weapons technologies were primarily built for precision, not force and distribution.”

“But it’s still possible, isn’t it? That the Jelineans are moving into bioweaponry?” Jim says.

“Jim, when I checked the cargo, the substance wasn’t contained—  it couldn’t have been harnessed as a targeted biological weapon in the state it was in. If you ask me, someone laced the cargo to infect a wide swath of people, not to transport a weapon for future use.”

If the substance wasn’t meant to be activated during transport, they can’t rule Starfleet out of the picture. Hell, he shouldn’t have ruled out Starfleet in the first place. Jim arches back, staring at the gray-flecked metal above them. “What if the responsible party is our own?”

Uhura lifts her eyebrows. “You mean Starfleet.”

“Bingo.”

She looks off to the side, thoughtful. “Starfleet wouldn’t have any reason to harm the Berellians, but the Jelineans are a different story. The Federation has long suspected the Jelineans of selling weapons and technology to aggressors and undeveloped planets.”

“It’s the best theory we’ve got so far,” Jim says, going back to pacing. “But what’s more important now is figuring out how to rescue the landing party. Ideas, ideas...”

An incoming signal interrupts, and the screen in front of Uhura flashes pale blue. Uhura widens her eyes. “It’s coming from Berelli.”

They all move closer to her console as she engages the communication and touches a finger to her earpiece.

“Berellian or Jelinean? If it’s a hostage negotiation...” Bones says, voice hushed.

Uhura shakes her head rapidly and motions at them to to be quiet. She listens, face intent, and adjusts the controls in front of her for another minute, ponytail falling over one shoulder. “The signal’s very faint. It’s also partly degraded. I can't make out what they're saying, and the noise-reducing algorithm doesn't work on this level of acoustic degradation.”

“Shit,” Jim rubs his head with the heel of his hand. “Okay, okay, let's regroup. Does anyone have any ideas? Or am I gonna have to go back to Plan A and charge down there phasers blazing?”

“This isn’t a hostage negotiation demand,” Uhura says suddenly. “I think it's Spock.”

Treacherous hope lurches in Jim’s stomach. “How do you figure?”

Uhura slides distractedly to the other side of the console. She taps twice, and a stuttering hiss fills the bridge as the transmission plays. “Here. There's something about the the pitch and inflection, if you can hear it under the degradation. It’s not Jelinean, and it's not— just trust me, Kirk.”

Jim leans forward. “Can we get anything from it?”

“If I could try something… we can look at the waveform of the transmission itself,” she mutters, fingers tracing quick shapes on the screen. “Assuming it’s Standard, I might be able to manually separate the phonemes along the consonant-vowel boundaries, cancel out some of the noise, and have the computer analyze the waveforms to distinguish the phonemes by their shape. Maybe I can get a sense of what he's—”

The bridge waits in a tense, vibrating silence. Jim watches Uhura swipe through sections of the transmission on her screen, slowly at first, then with increasing speed.

The transmission begins to play again, but this time, it resolves itself into words. It’s unmistakably Spock’s inflection, though his voice is distorted and nearly every other syllable is missing. “U-S Amity, th—is Comm— Spock sp—king. We are being held hos— by hostiles, but more impor—tly, we—ve ident—d a large store of atr—zine trich—thec—ne —ycotoxin on the pl—t. C—tact Starfleet for reinfo—ents immedi—ly. As m— thes— i—ays, prompt—cue—would —e app—ciated.”

Contact Starfleet? So not gonna happen.

“What was that last part?” Jim asks. “Was he talking about his thesis?”

Uhura looks simultaneously like she wants to laugh and like she’s horrified at the impulse to do so. “His thesis is due in two days. I think he’s urging us to rescue him quickly so that he can turn it in before the deadline.”

“Unbelievable,” Bones says. “He’s taken hostage and the biggest thing on his mind is his upcoming thesis deadline?”

Uhura holds up a hand. “Wait— another transmission is coming in.” She goes through the same rhythm of motions to translate the transmission, and plays it for the bridge.

“Pl— inf—rm Doc— —Coy that I —ave com— —cross inf—ation about t— chem—al comp—si—n of t— subs—. Th— cur— is b—d on —rb nati— t— pl—et.”

Bones pauses and glances at Jim, eyebrows furrowed with effort as he tries to make sense of the message. Jim shrugs at him. After a few seconds, Bones says, “Well, I caught my name, but not much else.”

“He came across information about TMA’s chemical composition, and the cure is based on an herb that’s native to Berelli,” Uhura says. There’s not even a hint of smugness coloring her voice. Jim’s impressed.

“Well,” Bones says, “Unless Spock managed to stuff his pockets full of flowers, we’re gonna need to get ahold of that herb ourselves.”

Something stutters into Jim’s memory. The endless fields of distinctive purple plants on Berelli. If only he’d known to bring some back with him—

Wait.

He totally did. And it’s waiting on the floor of the rec room.

“Bones,” Jim declares, “You are no longer allowed to yell at me for leaving my clothes lying around.”

“What in god’s name are you talking about?”

“The boots I wore on Berelli! Even my pants, probably. I bet they’re still on the floor by the sonic shower.”

He’s met with a blank stare.

“Okay, when I was on Berelli, I walked through fields and fields of purple plants, and the compound was located smack-dab in the middle of them. I bet the Jelineans faced a mycotoxin infection on their home planet, so they came to Berelli for the cure... only someone in Starfleet knew that, created a similar toxin but added atrazine to it, and laced the A/Cs with the resulting poison!”

Chekov, Uhura, and Bones play a round of eye-tag, trying to work out where Jim’s conclusions fall on the spectrum of outlandish to no-fucking-way.

Bones responds for the group. “God knows I’m going to regret saying this, but… that might make an iota of sense."

“Full disclosure,” Jim says, “I’m thinking that now’s the part where I go down to the planet to rescue the captain and Spock.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Uhura says, and for a brief second, Jim falters. But then she adds, “I’m going down with you.”

Jim nods, unable to stop his mouth from curving into a smile.

“But…” Chekov flicks his eyes between the two of them. “Did Spock not tell us to contact Starfleet?”

“Did he?” Jim says. “Pretty sure what I heard was ‘ _tchhhshhk_ Starfleet _schhhh fshh_ ’. I’m guessing he was telling us Starfleet would approve of anything we decide to do.”

“Ah… yes. Of course.”

Jim looks around at Bones and Chekov. “I’ve got a plan, but it involves piloting. Chekov, you wouldn’t happen to be a master pilot, would you?”

“My piloting marks are not nearly so good as my transporter marks,” Chekov says sadly.

When Jim shifts his gaze to Bones, Bones shoots off a glare. “No way in hell. Doctor, not a pilot. Oh yeah, and my deathly fear of flying might be a bit of an impediment.”

Behind them, a solemn voice rings out. “I can do it. I’m a _fantastic_ pilot.” It’s followed by a hacking cough.

Everyone turns toward the direction of the sound. Sulu’s canted against the edge of his cot, looking bedraggled and sweaty, one hand raised above his lolling head. Bones launches forward to try to push him back down, but Sulu stops him with a hand. “No,” Sulu says firmly, “It’s time for me to take my rightful place on this ship. I can do this. You healed me, Doctor. Now let me fly.”

“Great,” Jim says, “Sulu, you’re pilot. Bones, you’re co-pilot.” When Bones opens his mouth to protest, Jim says, “Kidding, obviously. Go amaze the world with your scientific genius. Chekov, you good to take care of navigation and tactics? And to, uh, make sure Sulu stays upright and doesn’t throw up on the controls?”

“I will do my best, Captain!” Chekov says, saluting.

“Perfect. Alright everyone, gather round. We need a plan...”


	3. Chapter 3

As he and Uhura plunge towards the planet, the lush Berellian landscape rushes forward to meet them. Variations on terracotta and vermillion streak across Jim’s vision until their parachutes unfurl one after another, dragging them out of freefall. A flock of feathered creatures, startled by their presence, scatters in their wake.

Below, the roof of the compound is a flat black disc, growing with each passing second. Jim angles his body and spreads his legs to glide towards it. As they slow to a gentle drift, he feels, for the first time, an ounce of gratitude for the Berellian climate. He still hates the humid, stagnant air for the way it immediately enveloped him in a sheen of sweat, but the lack of wind is a blessing as he and Uhura aim for the cramped landing space on the roof.

“I tried parasailing off the Golden Gate Bridge once, you know!” Jim shouts to make himself heard over the whistling air. “Didn’t work— security forces keep a close eye on the thing, who’da thunk?”

“Kirk!”

“What’s up!”

“Can we focus on trying to land on the heavily guarded compound without breaking our necks?”

Seconds later, Jim hits the ground and tumbles forward in a full-body heap on the hot tile. After untangling his legs from his parachute, he looks over at Uhura, who’s already stored her parachute and stripped off her jumpsuit. Her only sign of dishevelment is the single feather caught in her ponytail. It drifts to the ground when she turns to take in their surroundings.

Shimmying out of his own jumpsuit, Jim surveys the spread of scenery from the roof. If he weren’t so keenly aware that, nearby, there are a few dozen beings who would consider offing him a fine way to spend the afternoon, he’d find the pastoral landscape peaceful.

Jim’s about to vault toward the door when Uhura seizes his arm and pulls him back.

“Kirk…” She looks like she’s about to bite her lip, then seems to think better of it. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Uhura raises a perfect eyebrow at him.

“Okay— not really,” Jim admits. “Do you?”

“No. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

“‘Course not.” Jim grins. “We’ll be alright. I’ve got tons of experience pretending I know what I’m doing.”

The initial flash of surprise on Uhura’s face eases into a tiny, wry smile. “Is that your idea of reassurance?”

Shrugging, Jim turns to the door. Since his last jaunt to the planet, it’s been partially bricked up with tile. He presses his hands to it and bends down, scanning to check whether any of the holes are large enough to crawl through.

Uhura’s booted foot flies past his ear as she kicks in one of the tiles. A shower of plaster scatters over the ground. Well, that’s one solution to the problem.

"I think the coordinates Chekov gave us correspond to the twelfth floor," Uhura says, scanner in hand. "What’s the best way down?”

"Let's take a ride," Jim says, leading the way to the elevator shaft. Using the electromagnetic crowbar in Uhura’s pack, they easily pry the elevator doors apart and quickly rappel down the empty shaft to floor twelve, narrowly missing the elevator when it starts to descend again.

They dash down a row of identical doors and black-tiled corridors. Uhura holds out her scanner, and after a few moments, a steady alert begins to flash on the screen.

“They should be in here,” Uhura whispers, stopping short at one of the doors, indistinguishable save for the frenzy it inspires on her scanner screen. She eyes the small keypad at the side of the door. “All yours, Kirk.”

Jim pries open the panel and sets to work. Three minutes later, he reconnects the last of the wires and exhales in satisfaction when the doorway whirs open, revealing the captain and Spock. The captain is collapsed against the corner of the cell, noticeably paler than before, with Spock is crouched over him. Seeing them at the door, Spock stands up immediately.

“Spock!” Uhura runs toward him, hand outstretched. When she’s mere inches away, she halts to a stop, hugging her arms to her body instead. “Are you okay?” Then, as though realizing her surroundings, she turns to the captain and addresses him with a stream of slurps and sucking noises. The captain lets out a weak gurgle and lifts his tentacle. The fabric near his abdomen, Jim notices, is ripped and edged in a shine of black.

“How’d he get hurt?” Jim asks.

“That is of little relevance at the moment,” Spock says.

“Fine. Here, Captain—” Jim hands him a bandage from the rudimentary med kit that Bones had insisted he bring, and, spurred to mirth by the dire turn of the situation, pivots back to face Spock. “Couldn’t break out of here yourselves? That keypad was ridiculously easy to rewire.”

Spock assesses him with a pinched expression. “The circumstances that you faced outside the room were far different from those that we faced within the room. For one, we did not have ready access to the keypad.”

“Here’s an idea,” Uhura says, breaking her vigilant watch of the corridor to frown at Jim. “Let’s proceed to the next stage in the plan, instead of wasting time provoking each other."

"May I inquire about the contents of this plan?" Spock asks, but Uhura has already poked her head into the corridor, deemed the coast clear, and beckoned them out.

They follow Uhura past a bank of signs in Jelinean to the first door inside a secondary corridor, indicated by a few discreet tiled notices. Its walls are covered in a kaleidoscope of blinking lights flashing blues and reds, and at the center of the room is a large screen, surrounded by metal ledges, grooved and covered in silver mesh.

Uhura surveys the room and nods approvingly. “If we access the primary audio system, the evacuation announcement should go out to the whole compound.” When she rests her hand on the screen, it responds immediately to her touch, coming alive in swirls of green and silver. She sits down and starts typing at the console. Halfway through the command code, she pauses. “This’ll be the third time I’ve spoken Jelinean in my life.”

“And it’s gonna be flawless,” Jim says. “Because you are freakishly good at languages.” On the periphery of his vision, Spock inclines his head, expression as soft as Jim’s ever seen it.

Uhura scoffs, but there’s a ghost of a smile on her lips. With a deep breath, she finishes the last lines of her code. A garish shade of green washes across the entire screen.

Jim’s no expert on Jelinean, but he knows confidence when he sees it; rounding out harsh consonants and guttural clicks with perfect poise, Uhura embodies it exactly. She closes out the announcement with a series of punctuated grunts and shuts off the screen. “Well, I hope that worked. I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”

At first, the patter of footsteps is faint, but soon the walls of room start to shake with the fierce beat of dozens of fleeing Jelineans. Under the collective weight of their pounding feet, echoes ricochet through the hulking structure.

“Guess it worked,” Jim remarks.

Together, they wind back through high-ceilinged corridors, scampering into shadowed alcoves every time they hear the frantic shouts of approaching Jelineans.

"Spock,” Jim pants as they flatten against a narrow side corridor, “You have your comm, right? The one you used to contact us? Can I see it?"

Spock pulls the device from his pocket and hands it over.

Jim adjusts the link frequency, peering at the screen. “You boosted the signal to reduce ion field interference! _Nice._ ” The screen activates. "Chekov, my man," Jim hisses into the comm, "Deploy Stage 3. Transporter on standby."

"We need to go," Uhura says, brow furrowed. They manage to make it out of the communications room, but partway down the hall, the captain trips in a flurry of tentacles, gargling helplessly, uniform soaked through with inky blood. Spock and Uhura both lunge forward, each wrapping an arm around him, half-carrying him together while still keeping up a ragged pace.

After a dizzying series of sharp turns, they finally come up to a ledge. Below, a final straggle of Jelineans flees from the compound, although a few are, for some reason, running into the compound. But there's no time for alarm or curiosity. Overhead, a shuddering, uneven rumble announces the arrival of the Amity. The ship descends into the drop zone with a swiftness belying its well-worn shell.

“Chekov and Sulu, what a pair of aces,” Jim exclaims, admiring the tricky feat of navigation and flight as a hundred or so metal crates tumble out of the belly of the Amity and crash onto the compound, directly over the elevator shaft.  

“Kirk! We need to run!”

Jim lowers his gaze. A cluster of armed Jelineans in heavy armor and gas masks have reappeared around the corner. He and Uhura, not to mention Spock and the captain, are about six seconds away from becoming target practice.

He sets off on a sprint around the ledge, but Uhura calls after him, panicky, "Kirk, the captain is badly wounded, we can't keep up!"

He turns on his heel and rushes back. “Shit, shit, okay— we’ll split up. You take the captain, run when you have the chance— Spock and I will distract them! Just get outside so Chekov can beam you up.”

Uhura's eyes flash, but she sets her shoulder under the captain's arm appendage and nods at both him and Spock. "I'll see you back at the ship," she says to Spock. "Don't get killed," to Jim.

"Been doing okay so far," Jim says, smile spreading. "Wait for me to draw their fire, then go!"

He darts out into the hallway in a dead run, and Spock, eyes wide with alarm, shoots out behind him with his body held entirely straight as he sprints to keep up. One Jelinean shouts, and then the others break into a run.

Together, he and Spock race through the hallways, shedding the soldiers repeatedly only to have them catch up seconds later.

"Chekov," Jim pants into the comm, "Chekov, any chance you could beam us up from inside—"

The comm signal cuts out abruptly, and Jim slams to a stop. Behind him, Spock avoids a full-on collision by mere centimeters. Jim lopes back, mind wild with competing thoughts, all equally urgent— avoid hostile aliens; get the fuck out— and zigzags randomly through the side corridors of the floors, which hadn't seemed like such a maze the first time around. At one point, Spock, several meters off, calls, “I cannot to follow your movements with sufficient speed,” and of course it’s only now, when their route has gotten a little unpredictable, that Spock is short of breath.

But there’s too much else to think about, so Jim doesn’t make a huge effort to stop scrambling around like a headless chicken. He retraces his steps, back near an area that appears to be under construction. He’s plastering against the wall of the corridor in an attempt to stay hidden from the Jelineans when his comm signal lights back on.

Chekov’s voice filters through the speaker. Jim’s opens his mouth, ready to spit out an acknowledgement, but a hammering through the walls pulls his attention away. The sound is haphazard, uncoordinated— the effort of a sentient being.

“Shit! Someone’s still in there. Spock, you find a way out, and Chekov, beam Spock back onboard— I’ll catch up.” Without checking for Spock’s reaction, Jim pushes past the thin metal sheets blocking the entryway and scrambles into the darkness. At least he knows that all the other members of the Amity crew will have been safely beamed back aboard.

The electricity in the compound seems to have short-circuited, and there’s an odd, milky quality to the darkness inside, as though cobwebs are floating loose in the air. A faint chemical odor, tinged with a syrup-like sweetness, causes Jim’s nose to prickle.

“Hey— someone there?”

Feeling his way around the control stations, Jim hopes that his fingers don’t land on anything lethally sharp. Or anything designed to slice off appendages. He remembers passing by some pretty dangerous-looking technology and weapons prototypes earlier…

Doubt begins to trickle into his mind. “Hello?”

A harsh groan echoes through the chamber. Feeling strangely relieved, Jim stumbles toward the sound. As his eyes adjust to the dark, he makes out the outline of a lone Jelinean, face covered in a gas mask, leg trapped underneath a fallen beam. He sees a pool of green near her side, spidering across the floor. It’s just seconds away from reaching her.

Jim picks his way across the room, tosses the weapons strapped around her waist off to the side, then strains to loosen the metal beam. It’s heavier than anything he can remember trying to lift before, and he only barely manages to raise it a centimeter, at which point the Jelinean struggles to her feet and hobbles in the opposite direction Jim came in. As he lets the beam hit the floor with a clang, Jim realizes too late that he’s been breathing in the chemical fumes of undiluted TMA, just as his knees wobble. He still has enough presence of mind to avoid collapsing into what he guesses is the puddle’s path; even so, the substance is dangerously close to encroaching on his personal space.

He manages to crawl a few inches to the right, to a slight upward slope in the ground. Safely out of the circumference of flow, he tips back against the wall and closes his eyes. He’ll just rest here for a few seconds…

A large, cold, viscous glob drips onto his right shoulder. Jim opens his eyes, looks down at himself, and sees green.

“Fuck! Fuckfuckfuck _fuck_.”

As the glop of substance rolls slowly down his uniform sleeve, he can feel it starting to soak through the material of his shirt. If Bones was right— and Jim would bet handfuls of credits on that— it’s is going to start burning soon.

Jim reacts in the only way that seems reasonable. With some difficulty, he peels off his half-ruined, now deadly shirt. The effort is draining, and, hit with a fresh wave of dizziness, he tips over, landing in the thin veneer of TMA that’s spread over the ground. His comm falls out of his pocket and clatters to the side.

Jim tries to crawl forward. He considers trying to grope for his comm or getting to his feet, but his mind has arced into unanchored freefall, and he can’t seem to remember whether he’s tried either thing already. With a plunging sense of doom, Jim realizes that his vision is starting to blur. Wheezing, he manages, just barely, to wriggle away from the puddle, but by then, most of the toxin is already on him. His skin is starting to pulse, and he knows it’s going to flare up in agony soon.

He had wanted to end the misery of serving on the Amity, but this wasn’t what he’d had in mind.  On his grave, they’re probably going to write something like _James T. Kirk: killed while serving on a cargo ship_.

No. No way. Not cool. Energy renewed with a fresh wave of adrenaline, Jim grunts and slides himself forward, inch by inch, in the direction of the exit. At least, he thinks it’s the direction of the exit…

He hears footsteps.

Why does he hear footsteps? Who the fuck would be stupid enough to wander in here? Why the fuck did _he_ wander in here?

A pair of hands grabs onto him, trying to tug him upright. It doesn’t work. He’s not in an upright kind of mood. Whoever it is resorts to dragging him. Jim would complain about being manhandled if he thought his mouth were capable of shaping out the word “manhandled” at the moment.

Instead, Jim slits his eyes open. Whoever is dragging him is sporting a bowl cut.

The only person he knows who’s got such a stupid haircut is—

Nah. It’s gotta be a hallucination. Jim tries to bat at the hands pulling his shirt over his head. Stupid corporeal hallucination. What kind of fucking poison would produce such solid hallucinations, anyway?

But then he hears a familiar voice, sharp with irritation. “It would seem that my assessment of your character was correct. You are singularly unconcerned with your own safety, and you continually seek out situations that pose a significant risk.”

Jim closes his eyes and tunes him out. There’s a fireworks celebration going on in his brain, and he’d prefer not to miss it.

He isn’t going to drown in a puddle of poisonous green liquid on the floor of a shielded compound.

More importantly, he isn’t going to die on cargo ship duty.

He goes limp— between the relief and the exhaustion, he doesn’t plan on reverting to upright position for at least a few minutes.

“Kirk,” Spock says urgently, “We must exit the compound immediately.”

Jim flaps his hand weakly in response. A slurry of syllables dribbles out of his mouth. “Your hair... whyssit like ‘at? 's weird.”

A momentary silence; then he's being half-carried, half-dragged toward the blistering heat and propped against a wall. He can hear the rapid patter of Spock’s footsteps as it trails away.

Fighting his way to lucidity and struggling to open his eyes, Jim realizes that the open ledge is just around the corner. Searing crimson and glossy black whirlpool together in his vision, and he can only just make Spock out, his normally severe figure swizzling into the harsh glare of light.

Fragments of Spock’s orders waft over. “...navigate... ship against... side of the compound… position... transporter bay within... stealth field.”

Navigate a segment of the ship within the stealth field?

It’s impossible.

Well. Not _impossible_ , but the space between the shield and the compound is tiny, a blade of grass compared to the Amity’s 23,000 tons of welded metal mass.

But then there's a low rumble, like a ship's engines—  exactly like a ship's engines, in fact. When he looks up from where he's sprawled on the ledge, the glorious shape of the Amity is filling the sky, blotting out the red sun.

“...starboard side... one hundred meters… stop. Continue. Stop.”

Jim wiggles his hand in front of his face, enjoying the spectacle as his fingers spiral together in graceful loops. When he looks down, his body looks like it’s spilling onto the floor, a convergence of flesh and tile.

The hovering bulk of the Amity rotates slowly on an invisible axis, with such careful precision Jim could probably cry. Maybe he does, just a little bit. Sulu is great at this. He's the best sailor. Suuulu. Sea-lu. Yeah. _Yeah_. God, that’s good.

"Adjust position downward an additional thirty meters," Spock says, squinting up into the sun. The large shining build of the Amity drops infinitesimally lower, catching the edge of the building with a crumbling of tile and dust. She's here. She’s here to save him. How could he ever have not loved such a beautiful ship? She is his most beautiful Amy.

In the middle of the heartbreaking genius of his train of thought, to Jim's muddled surprise, Spock clasps him around the shoulder and brings them chest-to-chest. Jim realizes suddenly that he’s not wearing a shirt, and feels a deep pang of regret that he isn’t mentally stable enough to fully appreciate how awkward this must be for Spock, who grips him tight, somehow managing to convey strong distaste even as he pulls their bodies flush against each other.

“Chekov,” Spock says— and is Jim imagining things, or is that a hint of chagrin?— “Two to beam up. Please be sure to factor the increase in body mass into your calculations.”

Jim can’t work up the energy to speak before his vision is suffused in light, and seconds later, he’s spinning into the black, his mind and body lost to the waking world. Still, at the core of his scattered awareness, he knows, with absolute, radiant certainty, that this is a moment of real victory, and he will never, ever let Spock live it down.

 

* * * * * 

 

He’s a tangle of limbs, and he’s sinking through darkness, thick like tar and impossible to part. The darkness hardens around him, shatters— and he plummets into the void. He could be dreaming, or hallucinating, or maybe this is real. But it doesn’t matter, because everything is wrong and he slams into terrain that he can’t see and his breath has been twisted away—

Suddenly, his surroundings dissolve into grey. A few murky shapes form and drift lazily, join together and pull apart. The air here is suffused with an easy hum, and he can hear a ripple of murmurs— a familiar grumble, glancing across his consciousness; clipped, dignified consonants, failed attempts to whisper...

“Jim?”

Jim feels the harsh grip of reality, tugging him through the surface.

With immense effort, he cracks opens his eyes. Bones is about three inches away from his face, anxiety written across his face.

Slowly, Jim turns his face to the side, groaning. His mind is still crawling through an inchoate fog, and it feels like he’s got a pile of bricks digging into his backside. After a moment, he realizes that it’s just the cruel, uncushioned antigrav cot. Forcing his gaze to rove around the room, Jim takes in the small crowd standing around his cot— Bones and Uhura, Chekov and Sulu, even Spock, wearing expressions of varying relief and exasperation. The viewscreen overhead, normally used to run holovids, currently showcases a frowning Pike.

Jim closes his eyes and tries to burrow his face into the cot, hoping desperately that Bones is in a trigger-happy mood. For once, he would welcome the chance to be shot up with a nice cocktail of industrial-strength sedatives.

Threads of memory begin to surface to his mind— he can remember slipping against the pool of TMA, collapsing to the ground, being pulled to his feet by—

“Spock...!” Jim struggles to sit up, but Bones braces a hand against his chest, keeping him down. Jim settles for jabbing an accusing finger at Spock. It’s far too much effort, and he ends up flagging a limp hand in Spock’s direction. “You went back… saved me. Didn’t know Vulcans could be… stupid and noble.”

Bones turns to Uhura and mutters, “Imagining events. Must be the painkiller side effects.” He reaches back and pulls out another hypospray. “Jim, you really shouldn’t be talking...”

“No not yet gotta say this,” Jim mumbles. “Thought you… hated me, Spock. Sorry, is hate too... emotional? How ‘bout... considered my life...  to be of limited value.”

A very slight flutter of irritation crosses Spock’s face. “I knew that Doctor McCoy had concocted a working cure. As long as we successfully beamed aboard, the likelihood of which was moderately high, we ran little risk of contracting long-term health defects.”

“Hah... didn’t I tell you we could beam together? Admit it... I was right.”

Spock reacts with the Vulcan equivalent of a splutter, which is to say, he breathes through his nostrils slightly more heavily than usual. “To admit to such a thing would be highly irrational, as there is little truth to your statement. I stated specifically that Safety Protocol 12D.29.11 is excepted in emergency situations, and the situation we found ourselves in—”

“Point is... you went back for me. ’m gonna call it, Spock, we’re... friends.” Voice dropping to a whisper, Jim adds, “... _for life_.”

Pike interjects, “I’m happy to see that you fostered such strong intercrew relationships on this mission, but what I really need to know is what happened on Berelli.”

“Urgh,” Jim says, shielding his eyes. Looking at anything but the back of his eyelids is getting really painful. He might’ve been overzealous about making the case for his burgeoning epic friendship with Spock.

Jim hears Bones say, “Sir, he’s recovering nicely, but he’s still deep in the healing process. If this can be continued another time...”

“There is no need for that,” Spock interrupts. “I will compile a full report, sir; however, the most salient point is that a substantial amount of trichothecene mycotoxin-atrazine was discovered in the cargo of the USS Amity.”

“Basically,” Jim says fuzzily, “You’ll wanna tell Starfleet brass that they might wanna clean up the toxic explosion on Berelli.”

“And launch an internal investigation into how such a dangerous incident could have resulted from accidentally dropped cargo,” Uhura adds.

“That’s all I wanted to hear. I’ll see you all in my office for further discussion when you return.” The console blips as the link closes.

“Bones,” Jim mumbles. He flops his hand in what he assumes to be the direction of Bones’ scowl. “Bones, something for sleep...”

“You’re an idiot,” Bones says, “Who doesn’t deserve the mercy of modern medicine.”

A second later, though, Jim can feel the hiss of a hypospray against his neck. He knew Bones wouldn’t let him down. His awareness clouds over and all sound cuts out as he slips into a dreamless sleep.

 

* * * * * 

 

By the time Jim starts to ease into regular periods of wakefulness, they’re just two days away from arriving in San Francisco. As Bones puts it, now that the cargo’s technically been delivered, they no longer have any excuses for gallivanting around space. On the one hand, Jim knows he never wanted the summer post in the first place; on the other hand, it didn’t turn out to be half-bad, aside from the part where he tripped into a puddle of alien toxin and nearly died. Thinking about the disbandment of their makeshift bridge crew leaves him wistful. For all its harrowing moments, his short stint as Acting Captain had sated him, filled him with a sense of purpose he hadn't felt before.

Mere hours before the ship is set to land, Jim receives a summons on his comm, instructing him to be at Pike’s office at 1400 the following Monday, and a quick check reveals that the others received the same missive. There’s little ceremony surrounding the off-boarding process, and the mood is sober as they wave each other off.

Monday arrives too quickly. More specifically, 1400 on Monday arrives too quickly— Jim’s going to be late to Pike’s meeting if he doesn’t hurry, and Bones with him.

“Nothing’s gonna happen to us,” Jim says, excavating the depths of their closet for a clean pair of socks. He unearths a lone 3D chess piece, an unopened bottle of lube, and a musical birthday card he got Bones that warbles, “Happy 60th!”, before landing on what looks and smells like a pair of recently laundered regulation socks.

“I’d rather not start the meeting off with Pike lecturing us about punctuality,” Bones says, watching Jim attempt to pull on his socks with one hand and stuff an energy bar into his mouth with the other.

“I meant for dropping TMA on Berelli,” Jim says around a mouthful of dubious chocolate-ish flavor. “What are they going to do? They can’t call us out on it, because the stuff wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place, and Sulu found proof in the paperwork sign-offs that members of Starfleet Command were responsible.”

As they set down the path to the Administrative offices, Bones says, “Well, if they’re capable of something like that, I wouldn’t put it past them to figure out a way to blame all of us for the mess.”

“It won’t be a problem,” Jim says, but his mind has already accelerated into scheming mode. At the very least, it won’t be a problem for anyone else.

By the time he and Bones make it into the office, everyone else is already seated around Pike’s impressive steel-trimmed desk. Pike doesn’t comment on their late arrival, just slides his gaze toward the antique clock gracing his wall, then meets Jim’s eyes for a few pointed seconds. Jim holds his smile in place and takes a seat next to Spock, who’s sitting straight-edged, back no less than two inches from the chair at any point.

As Pike surveys the group, the room is quiet, save for the soft, exacting tick of the clock. Jim finds himself growing increasingly antsy. He’s about to cut into the silence with a defiant remark when Pike finally speaks.

“Let’s start with the chemical spill on Berelli. Would someone care to explain how an entire payload managed to fall out of the ship, right onto a recently vacated compound?”

Three beats of silence; then a barrage of voices fills the office.

“Sir, it was my responsibility and no one else’s—”

“I am the one who released the payload, I should be punished—”

“I did it, sir, I flew the ship over the compound—”

“Sir, we all agreed that this was the right—”

“Starfleet Command couldn’t just expect to get away with—”

They each cut their protests short. Jim looks around at the others. Only Spock stares straight ahead. The rest all blink at one another in surprise.

“Not an accidental explosion after all, I see,” Pike says. “If I understand correctly, Kirk, Sulu, and Chekov— each of you wants to take full responsibility for the incident. Uhura, you think the whole crew should receive equal blame, and McCoy, you think Starfleet ought to. You didn’t speak up, Spock, but...” Pike pulls over a report from the side of his desk and flips open to the first page. “‘While most members of the rescue party violated at least a dozen regulations in the course of the voyage, during the same period, they also demonstrated character traits that Starfleet claims to value— tenacity, strategic foresight, and grace under pressure among them. These cadets will likely become significant assets to Starfleet. My ultimate recommendation is that they be given warnings, and nothing more.’”

Nobody speaks. Jim sneaks a glance at Spock. He can’t stop himself from grinning when he catches a light brush of green rising to Spock’s cheeks.

“Aw,” Jim says, leaning in and nudging him with his elbow. “You like us or something, Spock?”

Ever the consummate professional, Spock coasts through the moment without betraying any signs that his dignity has been compromised. “Sir,” he says to Pike, “Am I correct in assuming that you were aware of the plot to eradicate the Jelineans?”

“You are. I didn’t sit in on the committee meetings myself, but I caught wind of them through informal channels. Starfleet Tactical wanted the Jelineans out of the way because of their aggressive arms-dealing, and they must have thought that using a compound based on trichothecene, which is native to Jelinean, would be a seamless solution. Don’t make that face, Spock, your thesis is fine as it is; I’m not letting you revise it to incorporate this new information. In any case, I strongly suspected that the committee members were planning something underhanded, but I had no concrete evidence.”

“And that’s where we came in?” Uhura asks.

Pike nods. “The best I could do was put together a team of smart, inquisitive cadets, and hope that you were nosy and audacious enough to solve the case. The captain is a close friend of mine. Replacing most of the regular merchant crew with cadets was less difficult than you might expect.”

Frowning, Spock says, “It was you who suggested that I use Berelli as a case study in my Xenopolitical Science thesis.”

Pike smiles benignly. “I did. I also requested the name of your best linguistics student.”

Uhura just folds her hands in her lap, but Jim can tell that she’s pleased.

“Sulu was meant to be pilot, but, well...”

Sulu rubs the back of his head, sheepish. “If I hadn’t accidentally put that ship in reverse instead of drive...”

Jim shakes his head at him in sympathy. “Tough luck, man. I set part of a ship on fire.”

“And they still let you pilot instead of me? Damn...”

Bones humphs. “So I really wasn’t even supposed to be on the ship. No disrespect, sir, but I do take some comfort in the fact that I wasn’t a pawn in your grand scheme.”

Pike smirks. “I _was_ aware that Kirk had a good friend who also happened to be a well-regarded doctor. I won’t say I didn’t look up your file. In fact, I was planning to approach you, but Kirk got to you first.”

“Why am I surprised? Between you, Jim, and Starfleet, it’s ridiculous for me to think that anything I do is of my own volition.”

“I think you’ll find that everything you do is of your own volition, Doctor,” says Spock.

“Don’t tell me you don’t do sarcasm on Vulcan!”

“I may have received instruction on the form once, in my childhood.”

“Are we relieved of duty on the USS Amity?” Uhura asks, before Bones can fire back with an insult about Vulcan education systems. She tilts her head and looks up at the ceiling thoughtfully. “I had a couple of alternative offers, and they may still be open. Or I could always take the time to start researching for my thesis, or lay the groundwork for next year’s Xenolinguistics Club...”

“Yeah,” Jim says, “Bones and I have plans to go extreme space-diving.”

“ _No_ , we definitely do not.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to continue serving on the Amity,” Pike says. “Given your familiarity with the situation, Starfleet Command saw fit to send you back to Berelli on a waste management assignment.”

The sound of five voices exclaiming, “ _What_!?” and one voice stating, “You must be mistaken,” slingshots through the office.

“I’m not being serious, good grief. Starfleet has already made plans to clean up the substance.” There’s a round of solemn silence as they all take a moment to recover from Pike’s sadistic sense of humor.

“But,” Pike continues, “I may have another mission for you. There’s been unusually rapid changeover in the delegations of Starfleet’s Beta Quadrant moon colonies. I suspect a group of recently instated Admirals may be peddling for influence. There’s a passenger carrier leaving in a few days— if you’re interested, that is.”

When Jim looks over, Chekov’s already nodding enthusiastically. Sulu grins and says, “As long as I get to pilot this time,” and, after tapping a finger against her lips, Uhura says, “I’ve always wanted to hear the ly’cah style of music developed on the moon colonies.” Spock inclines his head. “As I have recently submitted my fifth— and, I believe, final— Academy dissertation, my schedule is no longer filled to maximum capacity.”

“This assignment should fill you up to maximum capacity,” Jim says, waggling his eyebrows. Spock shifts an inch to the left.

Which just leaves Bones.

Jim gathers all the knowledge he’s gained over two years of careful study and pulls his face into a supernova smile of a starry-eyed persuasion. He realizes that everyone else is staring at Bones with less extreme versions of the same expression, except for Spock, who’s just watching Bones in a neutral— at most slightly anticipatory— manner.

“Oh, fine,” Bones says, channeling most of his ire toward Spock. “If it’s between this and extreme space-diving, I’ll choose to spend another two months with you lot.”

“No reason we can’t do both,” Jim says, breaking into a grin.“I hear Petra III’s got some spectacular cliff formations.”

 

 

 

— END —

 


End file.
